Kiza's garage

From the semi-darkness of the former garage comes the sound of a gramophone record. Under the needle turns one of the the best of Billie Holiday's jazz tracks. I admit I'm not a fan of jazz, but what I'm hearing right now fits the ambiance perfectly. I am surrounded by vinyl collections of various musical genres (from classical to electronic), and there are other relics from a rather forgotten era.

photo: pexels / cottonbro

On the walls are faded black-and-white photographs, a framed art picture of the city of Negotin from the Great War, shelves with rare books and Alan Ford comics, canvases of local painters. A flag with the image of Che Guevara hung on the ceiling. In the corner, a retro Nikon camera seems to secretly immortalize our every move. I think about the North American Indians and their belief that photographs steal the soul. In the same corner is a leather armchair where I imagine one of the famous creators of this or that world is sitting (making music, writing or tripping) ̶ someone like Rundek, Mika Oklop or John Lennon. An electric piano and a colorful acoustic guitar are silent next to the armchair. Espresso and non-alcoholic Jelen are drunk because the consumption of alcohol is strictly prohibited in the garage. Admittedly, I would have preferred an iced can of "zaječarca", but the rules of the house are the rules of the house. Across from the armchair lies a comfortable sofa. I'm thinking of blabbermouth. The host is already interrupting my thoughts by saying: "You are a married man. Just so you know that arrests are also prohibited here." I'm not protesting. Art is still my favorite vice, and in this place where we are now, it is in excessive doses.

The host and main archivist - curator - interior designer of the garage is Zoran J. better known as Kiza, otherwise my big brother from uncle. He is one of those usually unusual people. Chorister, musician, versatile craftsman, graduate theologian, eternal opponent of ruling dictatorships, Yugonostalgic, anti-nationalist and above all humanist. Self-proclaimed Softy Bear with the soul of a child whose kindness usually gets on the nerves of the less good, bad and evil people. He is wearing a T-shirt with the inscription "Old Man". What is written on the T-shirt does not suit his age, his spirit, nor his attitudes.

It's my first time here, and I'm just passing through. Working from seven to nine leaves very little free time for family, relatives, leisure, and boredom. No way to get where I usually go, nor to start where I didn't come from. Common pitfalls in the world of fast living and short lifespans. Kiza and I talk about politics, about women, about his tours with the Merry Gospel Choir, about friends from Atheist Rap, about friends from the area. Sometimes those same friends stop by looking for a break from the ordinary, in the mood for a temporary escape from the familiarity of everyday people, places and events. DJ Ivanji is someone who spends many precious hours with Kiza, in the space in question. I ask the brother-in-law when he will be able to assemble and install the mosquito net on my front door. It's almost summer, and soon the first damn bloodsuckers will fly in. "I don't know, maybe tomorrow. If I don't make it, I'll send Juca tomorrow to take measurements."

He gets up from his armchair, walks over to the Pioneer record player and changes the record. This time, the typical noise of vinyl is no longer heard. It is a new long-player. Red vinyl. A slightly different kind of music. Soul. And in addition to that, domestic, Serbian. One of the musicians is Peđa, a trumpet teacher and Kiza's neighbor from an apartment somewhere near us. I don't even have to ask about the name of the band because my brother is reading my mind again. "This is the Funk Smugglers. They recorded the album in the Czech Republic… Listen." Adjusts potentiometers. First-class equipment and sound system, an even better gig. "Soul is the music of the soul, just like the word itself says. Let's say that funk is the music of the heart."

Kiza is right. He is always right. Bob Dylan is right when he says that the purpose of art is to stop time. However, here the hours fly by at the speed of light. In the brother-in-law's garage, time runs backwards, and that's why the guests here are getting younger and younger. Another proof that music and certain holy places are rejuvenating and even healing. Just to pack my impressions and go. It's late. We both work tomorrow, thereby giving drop by drop of our blood and sweat for the cup of welfare of the caste at the top of the government. On parting, he gives me a computer mouse pad in the shape of a singlet. "Your sister-in-law is making a jibanica tomorrow night. If you can, stop by."

He didn't hear me. At the moment, nothing but music reaches his ears. Burazer is still in a world of his own, meditating with the sound stimuli of another time. I know that he is better off in his own, as he calls it, "cave" than I am outside, in the darkness of a city street that has become foreign and inhospitable. It is such a simple fact. In the end, I snap a photo of the portal between the worlds and go home with a whistle on my lips.