With a population of less than 5 million people,
Croatia still has one of the most strongly flourishing domestic pop scenes in Europe, producing dozens of household names in their own country, although still no artists who have yet reached the international recognition of a
Goran Bregović.
Unlike the
Swedish pop industry, which has accounted for a large proportion of the European gold disc mountain ever since
four Scandinavians in woolly jumpers Waterloo-ed their way to
Eurovision glory, Croatian music might not translate so well to the mass market, but that may not be so much of a bad thing.
Dance music aside, the vast majority of songs are written in Croatian, and aimed at the domestic market and the rest of former
Yugoslavia.
Quite a few Croatian pop songs aren't a million miles away from one or other of the various folk traditions, either.
Mandolin-laden
Dalmatian ballads are pretty much ubiquitous, and the
klape, male
a cappella groups from the Dalmatian coast, are often pressed into service as
backing vocalists when one or other diva needs a hand.
Another string-section favourite is the
tamburica from
Slavonia, especially popular in rural areas where
nationalist kitsch can still reign supreme. It appears forbidden to play one of these unless you're wearing the traditional Slavonian costume of a floppy
white shirt and a waistcoat with gold coins sewn on.
Other songs wouldn't sound too out of place in
Greece or
Turkey, and throwing in a
tin whistle from the
Medjimurje in the north allows the friendly arranger to stay faithful to
etno tradition and at the same time cash in on the worldwide fad for '
Do you want Celtic with that?'. The most disconcerting addition, if you're not expecting it, is the droning
Histrionic scale, although thankfully the
Istrians keep tabs on this one and don't let it wander off on its own.
On the other hand, just as many songs would fit squarely into the Italian or even
French traditions if it wasn't for the overload of consonants, and some of the singers currently breaking through sound as if they're auditioning for the
Max Martin stable.
The wars in former Yugoslavia affected Croatia until
1995; nothing in Croatian music rivalled the
Serbian regime-serving
turbofolk phenomenon, although everyday music understandably came served with a high side-order of
patriotism. Most of the leading singers of the time came together for the
Hrvatski Band Aid event, and typical songs of the era include
Đani Maršan's hymn-like
Bože, čuvaj Hrvatsku (
God save Croatia) or
Doris Dragović's belter
Dajem ti srce, zemljo moja (
My country, I give you my heart).
The one that makes the local-colour sections of the history books is
Danke Deutschland, in gratitude for
Germany's early support of Croatia's bid for international recognition.
To date Croatia has no
boy bands, and no
singles chart either. (It's not clear whether the two are connected.) Instead, songs are promoted by
airplay and an all-year-round calendar of festivals of which the largest is
Split's
Melodije Hrvatskog Jadrana, or Melodies of the Croatian Adriatic.
Every coastal town worth its salt, with the exception (so far) of
Dubrovnik, has its festival, as does
Zagreb, and
Požega takes care of the
tamburaši with the appropriately named
Zlatne žice Slavonije - the Golden Strings of Slavonia. A tried and tested shortcut to winning the public vote is to turn up with a song about the host city, leaving many back catalogues groaning with odes to Split or even
Diocletian's Palace therein.
Refreshingly, most Croatian singers seem to be doing the job because they actually know how to sing, not because somebody was holding open auditions in the next town along and they didn't fancy working on a
fishing boat all their lives. (Admittedly, in certain cases they just
sing about fishing boats all their lives instead.)
The Divas
No Croatian festival would be complete without a woman
wailing her head off within the first few numbers.
Tereza Kesovija, who's been on the scene since the mid-1960s, sets the general tone, while
Doris Dragović worked the synth-arrangement melodrama throughout the late 1980s but has now settled down into syrupy love songs and a recent mostly-dance album in the style of
Cher's
Believe.
(Switching into the first person, as all the
style guides tell one never to do, I can't let the run-through go any further without a mention for the soaring voice of
Maja Blagdan, without which I'd probably still be poring through the racks of
Celine Dion.)
On the shortlist for Most Likely To Break Europe, if any of them will, are
Vanna, now in her fourth year of
Anastacia impersonation, the suspiciously spherically-chested
Ivana Banfić, and
Severina, possibly Croatia's biggest star right now and from the sounds of things trying to represent
Spain,
Russia and Dalmatia all at once.
Uncategorisable is
Josipa Lisac, a
serious-artist-if-you-please with more
raddled a voice than
Marianne Faithfull. The nearest thing among the younger generation is
Alka Vuica, almost certainly the most innovative of the stars, whose most recent album veers from radio-friendly balladry, via Greek and Bregović cover versions, to a song about
Titoist youth brigades.
The folk scene, if by 'folk scene' one means 'Tonight, I'm going to be
Joan Baez', is carved up between
Lidija Bajuk and
Dunja Knebl, so similar that if the record shop's run out of one, you're likely to be offered the other. Although the
Milla Jovovich-esque
Ivana Plechinger spends most of her time writing for other artists now, when singing in her own right she's likely to be All That And
Natalie Imbruglia Too.
The Guys
Ignoring the fishing-boatmen (it's hard to get through a festival without a few of these, either), the male equivalent of Tereza is
Oliver Dragojević, likewise still revered in most of ex-Yugoslavia as well. Standing out among the balladeers is
Goran Karan, a rock singer until he was discovered in
1998 by Croatia's great songwriter
Zdenko Runjić and perhaps the only card-carrying
Hare Krishna with
long hair.
Petar Grašo has a good claim to the title of the Adriatic
George Michael, with the voice, the goatee, and the requisite rumours about his personal life. (No Croatian singers are
out of the closet yet, but you might like to start laying your bets.)
The rising star on the male side is a macho
nationalist rocker by the name of
Marko Perković Thompson, who apparently doesn't think it dents his image to storm the charts with a Croatian version of
Super Trouper.
Rather more critically acclaimed than the trio above is
Zlatan Stipišić Gibonni, a gravelly-voiced soft-rock singer who generally sweeps the board at Croatia's annual music awards,
Porin. His latest album,
Mirakul, contains a smash-hit collaboration with
Putokazi, a
new age girls' choir from
Rijeka.
The Groups
One or two of the major groups today have been going since the early 1980s with several changes of lead singer in the meantime. Egotistical songwriter
Tonči Huljić's pet band,
Magazin, seems to have had a roster of identikit blondes at the microphone, apparently much to Mrs Huljić's dismay. (The last but one,
Danijela, is an A-list star in her own right.)
Stijene, or (I'm afraid) The Stones, have gone through six, who bear rather less resemblance to each other but have nearly all had relatively impressive solo careers; they include Maja Blagdan, and Danijela's sister
Izabela. Less than 5 million, remember; there's bound to be a dynasty or two.
Two other bands,
Novi Fosili (New Fossils) and
Srebrna Krila (Silver Wings), only petered out a few years ago, but there can hardly be a former-Yugoslavian who couldn't whistle at least one of their 1980s hits.
The three leading rock groups have existed for just as long;
Crvena Jabuka (Red Apple) were formed in Sarajevo in
1985, part of a Yugoslavian rock movement known as the
New Primitives. They're comparative newcomers next to
Prljavo Kazalište (Dirty Theatre), who first recorded in
1978, and
Parni Valjak (Steamroller) who go back to
1976.
Rijeka seems to be the centre of the Croatian rock scene: it's produced
En Face, possible candidates to be this decade's Parni Valjak, and
Belfast Food, trying and mostly succeeding to sound as Irish as
The Pogues. Their debut CD, (
Melodije Irske i Kvarnera - a play on the title of Rijeka's local festival,
Melodije Istre i Kvarnera, which showcases music from the
Istria and
Kvarner regions), contains a version of
The Wind That Shakes The Barley and the rather less traditional
Bilbo's Dream.
The surf band
Bambi Molesters, meanwhile, aren't particularly well-known at home, but so far they're the only Croatian band to have been featured in the British press, presumably because
questionably Sapphic teenagers and
orange-haired wannabe Pop Idols are thin on the ground where they come from.
Croatia's two most famous dance bands,
Electro Team and
Colonia, have been going throughout the 1990s; ET, from whose ranks Vanna graduated, still succumb to the temptation of English Rap Sections For English Rap Sections' Sake. The Colonia formula - two men and a diva - has recently been copied with almost as much success by the group
Matrix, who even come from
the same home town. For extra credit, try to guess
which year they might have been formed.
With thanks to shallot for prodding me about the rock music...