In Belgrade, not even war can stop the party

Throughout all of Serbia’s hardships, the capitals’ already renowned club scene has only improved. Part three in a series on nightlife in European cities.

Bottles of cheap white wine, water and half litres of beer were strewn across staircases and car hoods in an alleyway in Belgrade’s downtown on a recent Saturday evening. A bracing wind played with the thin plastic bags that contained tonight’s supply.

A group of friends that was meeting there to get an early start on the night’s drinking seemed immune to the cold. As their laughter grew louder, so did the echo bouncing of the facade of a nearby flat.

Curbside drinking

Between gulps, Irena Mirkovic and her friend ‘Sreda’ (Serbian for ‘Wednesday,’ after the Addams Family daughter of the same name) helped each other fold their small scarves into bandanas. Sreda, whose large pupils were framed by a skinny face, crowned with tall peaks of brown hair, pulled a fur-rimmed hood over her head. The girls were drinking on the street in part out of necessity. “We don’t have any money. This is Serbia,” one explained. Again, laughter resounded throughout the street. Again the glasses were raised in toast. The girls had smoked some marijuana taken care to get before leaving their homes.

By midnight, the time had come to leave the streets for a rave party at Ex Lagum nightclub, situated in a former bunker in a nearby residential area. The earth and thick metal shielding covering the onetime shelter provided some insulation for the clubs’ neighbours, but the music’ beat could still be felt outside.

The owner of a different nightclub, Pero di Reda, aka DJ Peppe, explained that he regularly fielded complaints from neighbours, who also took their grievances to the police. The Tube, his popular venue, is located in a basement right in the middle of Belgrade’s upscale Dorcol neighbourhood. “The club is well isolated,” he said. “But sometimes cabs coming and going or people yelling out on the street can be a nuisance.” The police deal with it appropriately, the popular businessman said. “They are flexible. They tell my neighbours: ‘This is part of the deal when you live downtown.’ They understand I am running a business here.” If he were to throw a party without a permit, the police would be quick to respond however, he said.

River bank revelry

Noise is more of a problem in summer. Most clubs then close their doors as revellers move on to the so-called splavovi: large boats moored on the banks of the Sava and Danube rivers that meet in Belgrade. The boats do not lie adjacent to housing, but sound can reach even further over water. Di Reda himself lives two kilometres from most riverside nightclubs and said he could hear the thumping bass emanating from the boats every night in summertime. “Nobody complains,” he said. “I am not just saying that because I am part of the industry. People like to go out here. Whether they are 18 or 70, they you stay out late with friends.” The law does not prescribe closing hours in Serbia, and smoking is still legal in many public places.

Serbians cherish their reputation as the most primitive and barbaric, but also the most humorous, relaxed and party-hardy people of former Yugoslavia. The massive number of young Slovenians, Bosnians and Croats pouring into the capital every weekend looking for a party seem to prove that reputation is well deserved. Some groups even reserve tables months in advance on floating nightclubs that play turbofolk music.

Adam Sulica, one of the curbside drinkers outside of Ex Lagum, talked about his family in Slovenia. His cousins could not get enough of his stories about Belgrade, he bragged. “Belgrade gives them a hard on. Over there, the streets are deserted by ten o’ clock in the evening.”

A dash of recklessness

Many nightlife connoisseurs feel Belgrade offers the perfect blend of East and West. In the 1980s, when Yugoslavia was falling apart, the underground club scene of the city was already internationally renowned. “We have Eastern charm, but Western musical know-how,” Di Reda said. The wars and international economic sanctions of the 1990s added a dash of recklessness to the town’s nightlife. Daily life may have returned to normal, but when going out, people “still live every day like it might be there last,” Branko Nesic, the owner of the city’s three so-called Rakia Bars explained.

Nesic opened the first Rakia Bar in 2006. The venues serve a traditional fruit brandy which is distilled in small towns across Serbia’s countryside, but in a stylish, hip setting. The concept has proven a great success. A liquor considered a geriatric concoction only a few years ago has found new popularity among the city’s youth. Clubs today sell as much rakia as they do whisky and vodka.

Eastern and Western influences also play their part in the city’s drinking habits, Nesic said. Western style drinking entails getting extremely drunk on weekends, which can cause a nuisance out on the streets. Eastern style drinking means imbibing leisurely all day, every day, with some snacks to go with it. People generally start out young. Every family has at least one member who distills his own liquor. It is not uncommon to see elderly men taking shots with a neighbour at 11 am, or mothers taking care of sick children by giving them a handkerchief soaked in rakia.

Those traditions might soon be gone, Nesic said, with some regret in his voice. Serbia’s laidback rural lifestyle is slowly being replaced by the fast-paced rhythm of urbanity. Young Serbians work hard in the daytime and are less and less likely to go on weekday drinking binges. Drinking during working hours – as was common in the Communist era, some say – is also no longer an option.