'I MET MY BIOLOGICAL MOTHER AT 50': Miroslav Živanović's life story – on music, Alisa, flea market, and ILLNESS that struck him
'My first memories in life are of Smederevo. I was born in Belgrade, but when I was four, my parents decided to move to Smederevo because of work, and later we moved back to Belgrade'
My childhood was nothing out of the ordinary… There were gangs in Smederevo, and we played cowboys and Indians. I think I was always an Indian. I remember I had a lot of marbles that I used to play with outside, with the other children. My childhood was free of all care. We had an OK life – I come from a blue-collar family, so there was never any need for squandering. I was a good kid, I remember I was very humble, probably because of the penury that we were in as a society. I didn't have a brother or a sister growing up, I was a single child.
Two mothers
My father Dragoslav was born in the Morava River Basin area, and came to Belgrade looking for work, which is where he met my mother Ivka, who was originally from Croatia. I am a man with two mothers. I was raised by my stepmother Vida. She was wonderful to me, and I feel bad referring to her as a stepmother because she loved me as her own child. Mom and Dad explained the situation to me in a very competent way – through questions: "How would you behave if you were to find out that Vida isn't your biological mother but your stepmother?" I got used to this information and, over time, started to reply: "I'd do nothing, what could I do?" They didn't tell me when I was 16 or 17; instead, they started to repeat that since I was five years old and made me get used to that fact. Children in puberty have a more extreme reaction to such matters. Before she died, Vida told me that she'd like me to find my real mother, which is what I did when I was 50.
My parents' divorce
My parents divorced when I was two years old, after which they both started their new lives, and I stayed with my father. I found out later that my mother hadn't abandoned me and left, but that my father had taken me away. After the divorce, I stayed with my mother, who had to leave me with my grandma and grandpa in the village because of her work. My father had heard it through the grapevine that my mother wanted to take me to France. He didn't like the idea, so he went to the Yugoslavian Intelligence Services. They gave him a gun, and my father went to the village with this gun, took me away from them by force, and went back to Belgrade. He got custody over me summarily. I asked him later, when my mother told me the story, if it was true, and he just laughed and said: "I did have a gun on me when I went to take you away, but I didn't shoot."
As I said, we lived in Smederevo for a few years, and then we moved back to Belgrade, which is where I finished The Vuk Karadžić Elementary School. I was the generation that would take a beating from the teachers when we misbehaved. We didn't kneel on corn – that was part of the past. There was a mathematics teacher who would slap us if we didn't look him in the eyes as he was teaching. I can't say that I was the best student, or that I liked school, but I was fairly good.
My best friend
At school, I had a wonderful friend, Uroš Anić, and we were inseparable. We would do a lot of stuff all around the city and collected model cars and airplanes. We were scamps as kids. He became a monk later in life, so we lost touch. Once I went to see him and get to know him again, but I was too late because he had passed away a few months before my visit. My friendship with him was one of the hallmarks of my childhood.
The secondary school
I went to the Secondary School of Architecture, which was attended by the best and most beautiful women in the city. I studied and worked on what interested me. I liked to draw and had a gift for such subjects. However, mathematics, chemistry, and biology were a disaster. If it hadn't been for a friend of mine who studied together with me, I wouldn't have managed to graduate, because back then I started to get more actively involved in music.
Getting my hair cut
I've had long hair all my life. How can you be a musician, and not have long hair? They kept cutting my hair short, and even my parents were against this rebellion of mine. On this one occasion, the principal called me into his office and said that I had to get my hair cut because it was against the regulations. That hit me really hard.
Playing in the garage
When I listen to musicians' stories, I always hear that there was a watershed moment, when they realized that they would be involved in music. As for me, it was all gradual. Kids from the neighbourhood would gather up in a garage, and play and sing there, and that was it. Everyone did what they knew and wanted. Many of them played because of girls, but I did it because I liked it.
I've had my nickname, Pile (Chicklet), since I was young. Even my late mother called me that. When someone says, "Miroslav," I don't pay attention because I only realize it's me they're talking to by my nickname, not by my first name. And here's how I got to be called Pile. We once went on a school trip as kids, and my late mother prepared some baked chicken for me as a snack. I was the sort of person who would immediately dig in when on a bus, because for some reason I always felt very hungry. My buddies from the bus liked it, and I got the nickname that I still have today. I even introduce myself to people as Pile.
I did my military service in 1980 in Pula, from which I have wonderful memories. While I was there, my girlfriend left me – just as I was getting ready to escape with a friend of mine, her letter arrived. The two of us were really good friends and were getting ready to escape because we saw no point in being there, him being a poet and myself a musician. We worked out a plan to have a film kiss right in the middle of the barracks, to shock everyone and so get discharged, but – what do you know – we didn't have a reason to do it, so I completed my military service.
My first band
I got involved in music early on, when I was 16. It was a different time, and you were required to be good. These days, whatever's on the radio all the time is a hit. I've always preferred playing to singing. I started to sing because I was the best singer of all my friends. We had no equipment, so we would get a plug into the radio. It was only later that we managed to buy an amplifier. My first band was called Sedmi Krug (The Seventh Circle), and we played all across Vojvodina. Very soon this turned into gigs. Back in those days, it was important to know how to play "Crni Leptir ("The Black Butterfly") and "Smoke on the Water". We first sang a bit in our company of friends, and then we started working on ourselves to develop into something bigger and better.
Tito
We were always lucky to be able to practice in nice spaces, and never got into the whole garage thing, so it was owing to that that we sang for Tito. When we were kids, we had a nice space at the end of Sarajevska Street, which housed a youth centre. We'd sometimes play at a ball for the audience who lived there, which enabled us to have that space to play in. One day, Krtza, who was the youth centre president, comes in and says, "Guys, you know what? You have to sing when Tito is passing by. There will be a lot of people, and you will have to sing two songs." I objected, saying that we won't, to which he said, "OK, then you no longer have a space to practice in." And so we sang.
We had a great thing going thanks to Jovan Stojiljković, who was the composer. They'd always ask me why we'd picked Alisa (Alice) of all the fairy tales, but I don't know the answer to that question. That man authored fairy-tale-like lyrics, and fairy tales connote Alisa. Out of everyone performing at the time, we were the ones who made good because we had something original. The whole idea of our band was a fairy-tale-like story and romance, which went down like a storm back then. We made our first album for Jugodisk because the others didn't see that potential. Ratomir Krkić was the one who understood what it was all about and took part in it with us. We were young, we weren't professionals, but we were talented. Lots of things were going on, and I wasn't ready for any of it. I couldn't find my way. It was almost as if one day you're a nobody, and then the next day a big shot. I had never been on a plane before, but then "Sanja" happened, and I wasn't getting out of planes for a week. Hari Varešanović once said something that best describes what actually happened: "Then some people showed up, sang 'Boats go down the Danube', and got all of Yugoslavia on their feet."
Sanja
My friend Jovan Stojiljković wrote "Sanja" back when I wasn't even composing songs. I was at his house, we were hanging out and drinking, and at one point he started to write lyrics. We played around a bit and made the song. He actually doesn't remember how we did a stanza that night. He didn't remember half the lyrics at all on the next morning. He just woke up and saw the lyrics on the table. I asked him if he was alright, and he said, "Fantastic!" He produced pure poetry, which can be recited as well. He created something amazing without even being aware of it.
The song that ruined my career
The song "1389" or "Neće Fata Sina Bajazita" ("Fata Doesn't Want Her Son Bayezid") ruined my career as a result of 'multi-stupid' circumstances. I saw that I had a problem with that song, but I didn't know why until we came to Sarajevo for a gig at a concert hall, I think it's called Zetra. They asked us which songs we were going to play, and we said naively, "We'd like to play 'Sanja' and 'Neće Fata Sina Bajazita'". It never occurred to us that we could make a problem for ourselves. Dino Merlin, who was in attendance at the concert, told us not to sing that, but I was being stubborn and said, "Oh yes, we will." "Sanja" went down great, but the other one almost cost us our lives. We found ourselves in a situation where half of the people in the hall were throwing bottles at us and turned their back on us, while the other half were having a great time. It's unbelievable – on the next day, we sang the same song in a purely Muslim town, where they requested an encore of the song a couple of times. People later explained to me what the problem was, so we agreed that we weren't going to perform it again. I ran into Ranko Krivokapić once, and he told me in jest: "That Serbian bragging of yours isn't healthy," and he was right.
My wife
There used to be a show on the radio where people would leave their telephone numbers and would later be connected. At the time, I was living with a friend, and we were bored, so we decided to leave our number. We soon started to go out, fell in love, and decided to live together. Dragana made an excellent pizza, and that's how she got me hooked.
The first retiring from the scene
In the 1990s, I stopped being involved in music because I'm a big patriot, a nationalist, if you will. I stopped performing because I couldn't stand performing while people were getting killed. Each bad news moves me. When a plane falls out of the sky and people die, I get hit hard. When Kosovo and Montenegro broke away, I had a really tough time dealing with that. When you sing, people are happy, but I couldn't do it. I'm not criticising those who did sing, but we all have our crosses to bear. I was this close to going to the frontline, but I didn't because the bus that we were supposed to get on didn't show up. I realized that I probably wasn't destined to be waging wars. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of helplessness.
The demonstrations
That year, I spent more time at protests than at home. I was there on 9 March. There was this incredible positive energy that will never happen again. That's where my way of thinking and my personality were crafted. There was also a fight with the police, and I got beaten up good. My late best man had a café at the city centre, and I was living in Sarajevska Street. I heard on the radio that something was happening, some sort of pandemonium. So I put on a tailcoat and a bow, and decided to be with them during the bedlam. When it was all over, a girl asked me to head to our homes together because it was already late. However, during the unrest, a woman injured a police officer, and when we got out, they started accusing us that she had thrown stones at them. One cop punched me, and I fell down. They grouped together and started going at me, and the one who punched me walked over and said, "Come on, run!" The greatest paradox of that story is that I was saved by the man who had beaten me up! When I came home, I saw that I was already swollen and that that guy knew well where to punch.
My son Stefan
Children being born is the greatest happiness in the world, but I couldn't be happy because I feared for his life. I welcomed Stefan in 1992. He was born prematurely, so I went to see the doctor and ask how he was doing. He said to me, "Well… He stands a solid chance." I fell silent and went back home. I didn't call anyone. Everybody was calling to congratulate me on having a son, and I didn't know if he would live or not. It was a hell of sorts, but after about ten days they both came back home alive and healthy. Stefan is a wonderful boy who has brought me lots of happiness in life.
The flea market
The 1990s were difficult times – we were all in a crisis and had to make do whichever way we could. For example, I spent a few years at the flea market. After talking to a friend who used to work there, I realized that I could do the same thing. I mostly sold books, and that lasted for a while. You needed to bring food to your family somehow, with my wife no longer working. We lived off of that for a few years. Later, even when I made some new recordings, I'd go to the flea market. The sanctions were rough, and we would go to Hungary, buy loads of various stuff, and then resell it. People made do as best they could. Then I met a friend of mine just before the bombing, and he offered me to sing at a very nice club. I came up with a programme of sorts, and started making decent money and supporting my family.
My mother Ivka
I found my mother in Paris when I was 50 years of age. I decided at one point in my life to find her, and my father helped me. He told me that I had an uncle who lived in Zagreb, and that I should try reaching her through him. One evening, persuaded by a good friend of mine, I was dialling numbers of people with that last name. It took some two hours, and I was pleasantly surprised at people's reactions. I dialled one number, and no one picked up. When I dialled another, he answered. He was excited and surprised because he didn't think that he would ever hear from me. He told me: "You know what, I'll tell her that you've found her. Some people who reach their mothers after many years kill them. There was a story like that in the papers a couple of days ago." I explained that I meant to inflict no harm on her, and I left my telephone number. At one point, my late mother-in-law starts running around the house trying to find me as she cried out, "Miroslav! Miroslav! It's your mom!" I took the phone and told her, "I'm sorry, madam, this is a bit of an unusual situation, but I don't know you." She later rebuked me for that.
Meeting my mother
My mother insisted that we get together, and offered to come over. We agreed that I come visit her in Paris, so that we could get to know each other. My visa was refused, but my mother went to a friend of hers who held a high-ranking post at one of the Western embassies. The two of them got my visa sorted out, I went there, and gained some seven kilos in 15 days. Meeting my mother was very emotional – it is an incredible thing to meet your mother at age 50. Staying with them was pleasant, and they treated me wonderfully. My mother felt that she owed me something, so she was helping me financially a bit at the time, which isn't typical of Westerners. I've inherited a little house there, which is wonderful, and I'm considering going to see it.
The family in France
After divorcing my father, my mother married a wonderful man, with whom she had a son, my half-brother Giancarlo, who was gravely ill at the time. They worked in Paris and spent their vacations in Italy, because my stepfather is from Capo Di Monte, where I stayed a couple of times. They always treated me wonderfully, better than I could have expected. They never kept me apart from Giancarlo, who was a wonderful boy. Sadly, he died young. Since my mother died, I don't wish to go there. My stepfather is now suffering from dementia, so I can't communicate with him normally either. It's a shame how it all turned out, but it cannot be changed.
The banned song
I got actively involved in music again in the 2000s. In those years, I played the bass guitar with friends from Sarajevska Street in a band called Krug Dvojke (The Tram No. 2 Route). They were amazing guys who offered me a lot of support, so we recorded and released a CD, but we didn't have any media support, and all that's left of it is a nice memory. Then I made an album with Alisa, for which I got the support of the label. The lead single on the album was "Boško Buha", which lots of money went into. The song was released, and we had an amazing music video, for which the sponsor set aside quite a bit of money. It was already becoming popular with the kids, and everything was going great until the murder happened. I was riding my bike when a friend called me up to tell me that the song would be banned. I was shocked and asked him, "Which song are they going to ban??" to which he said, "What do you mean – which song? 'Boško Buha'. Haven't you heard that General Buha's been killed?" And they really banned the song at the RTS Board of Editors. They allowed it six months later, but that ship had already sailed. I couldn't make it happen to start living by making music again.
The unrealized wish
I still haven't recorded my best songs. I met the great poet Duško Trifunović once, to whose verses I've written a few songs. That is my most valued possession, and it remains to be seen if it's going to be the new "Sanja".
The greatest sadness
When you lose your parents, these griefs are inevitable, and you get used to them somehow. I was the saddest when I became ill and realized that I might die without having said all that I wanted.
The illness
The job that I do requires being in the limelight, and I've been living a quiet life. Six years ago, I became seriously ill and had three operations in three years. I've lost a finger, so now I make jokes about having had dealings with the mafia, so they cut it off. It wasn't pleasant being under general anaesthesia three times – in some sense you're on the threshold of death. The recovery is still going on, I feel pretty good, I can sing and play. You never know what lies ahead. What's left is to pray to God for my health and to tell people that once you lose your health, it doesn't come back. When you're healthy, you feel it's pointless to talk about it, but then everything changes…
(Kurir.rs / Andrijana Stojanović)
