Vedran, steering with one hand while trying to peel a cold burek with the other, looked at the dashboard. "We need something to keep us awake, or we’re going to end up in the canyon. Pass me the 'Special Mix'."
They passed a sleepy police checkpoint. The officer, usually ready to pull over any suspicious-looking van, caught a glimpse of the band jumping in their seats. Instead of reaching for his whistle, he found his foot tapping against the pavement. The energy was infectious; the "Ultra Mix" was leaking out of the windows and into the night air. dubioza_kolektiv_ultra_mix_za_dusu_i_tijelo
Vedran hopped out, energized and grinning. "That wasn't just a mix, brother. That was a survival kit." Vedran, steering with one hand while trying to
Suddenly, the fatigue in the van evaporated. Damir’s eyes snapped open. In the back, the brass section—who had been snoring in a pile of trombone cases—started clapping in unison. The officer, usually ready to pull over any
Damir fumbled through a glove box overflowing with tangled cables and old concert flyers. He pulled out a dusty, unlabeled CD-R with the words (Ultra Mix for Soul and Body) scrawled on it in thick permanent marker.
Damir, the keyboardist, was slumped against the window. "I think I’m seeing double," he muttered. "And not the good kind of double where we get paid twice."
"This one?" Damir asked. "The one we recorded during that three-day wedding in Mostar?" "The very one," Vedran grinned. "Press play."