BEOGRAD ROK GRAD

I was born the same summer as Woodstock, so I’m not surprised that concerts hook me the way they do. Awed by the glory of live Rock ‘n’ Roll, I have worshipped its healing power throughout my life. And I live in a city loved by my musical gods: they visit often and connect with our fervent French-Canadian audience. But my latest revelation has been feeling that kind of energy in a different city, and so this past summer I went to see Whitesnake at Taš Stadium with my fellow rocker-Serbs. It was quite refreshing to feel Belgrade’s crowd vibe, dynamic and joyous as I had perceived it at previous concerts in the city. And then, as these thoughts occurred, a twist in the weather led

me to both the darkness and the light at the heart of its rockin’ soul.

Appearing from nowhere, a sudden thunderstorm blew over stage-props and delivered a deluge of rain upon

David Coverdale and company, and all of us in the sold-out crowd. The intense lightning meant the band had

to cut things short, whipping through an electrifying performance of Still of the Night. They managed to crank

out a satisfying, eighty-minute set for which we paid extra by getting soaked in the downpour, but we didn’t care.

The chance necessity of braving the elements seems to be understood by Serbian rock fans.

Most of the crowd left, but some huddled wherever there was shelter to wait out the rain. I got acquainted with the bartenders and fans at the topmost beer tent just below the cliff. We shared drinks and sang songs until the tattooed muscles of the head of security arrived to treat us rudely. The person closest to me took issue with him, and angry shouting ensued. The guard was soon replaced by a platoon of cops who arrested the man with excessive force and then shut down the bar. Having had a few beers myself, I protested his innocence until they sent over a police lieutenant who spoke reasonable English to address me. I insisted that the guy had never been beyond my sight, had hurt no one and damaged nothing.

The lieutenant explained that the chap had told him what he could do with his own mother, and how they would release him in the morning with a fine. Someone informed me that a beating would be the likely result for his incestuous suggestion.

Darkness.

After the police van left, the rain stopped, and some of my young friends from the beer tent led me up the street

and persuaded a doorman to allow me into a basement university bar. It was called Klub Studenata Tehnike (KST), and its walls and pillars were tastefully decorated with the rebellious quotes of Western rockstars. Beer was cheap, and the young diehards and I downed plenty of it and rocked hard to eighties’ hair-metal classics until almost

dawn. I was thrilled to meet a layer of Belgrade’s youth who knew well the glorious music of my adolescence. I had a lot of energy to dance off, such that the kids flattered me with disbelief about my age. I realised that I didn’t have identification on my person to prove it, and this oversight was humbling in retrospect: had I been the one arrested earlier at Taš, while unlikely to suffer a beating, I would still have faced certain difficulties.

The next day I was voiceless and my neck hurt like hell, but I had no regrets. I read a bit about the history of the KST, rocking for so many decades to great music from near and far. I felt lucky that of all the places I could have landed that night it was at this unique slice of Belgrade’s history. And, best of all, I discovered that the radiant light of Rock ‘n’ Roll shines brightly in Serbia.