Mostar Sevdah Reunion at 25

This year marks the 25th anniversary of the first release by Mostar Sevdah Reunion (known to its members as MSR), a Bosnian band with a complex history. Their name alone gives an inkling of that history, though there is much more to delve into. To start with: Mostar, the historic capital of Herzegovina, is a Janus-like city, a gatekeeper facing in two directions. Set on the green river Neretva, it marks a transition from the limestone peaks and scrub of the Dinaric highlands to a fertile plain leading to the Mediterranean, planted with orchards and vineyards. Ottoman mosques and fountains, and the soaring arch of the Old Bridge from which the city takes its name (‘most’ means bridge) face stolid Austro-Hungarian hotels and municipal buildings, blocks of flats from socialist times, contemporary shopping centres and big box stores; 30 years on, traces of the destruction wrought by the 1992-1995 war remain visible. And, despite the best efforts of many, the river divides a Croat west and a Bosniak east.

Sevdah is a Bosnian word derived from Turkish, signifying melancholy. In Bosnia, it acquired connotations of heartache, lovesickness and even despair. Musically, it is closely linked to the centuries-old sevdalinka, a song form with sinuous melodies and shifting metres originally performed unaccompanied, later acquiring harmonies and instrumental accompaniments. With time, under the influence of a talented group of musicians centred around Sarajevo Radio, it crystallised into a style seen as the ‘proper’ way to perform. But sevdah is a rogue quality, an emotion that can be infused into more than one type of song, and has become a synonym for the entire repertoire, with MSR pioneering ‘new sevdah’, its contemporary manifestation.

The Reunion itself was a very literal one, and though I am loathe to dwell on the war, it was crucial to MSR’s formation and development. For there to be a reunion, there must first be a sundering.

After an uneasy alliance between the armed forces of Croatia and Bosnia collapsed in May 1993, most of the western bank, where the local radio studio was housed, came under Croat control. This rapidly led to the establishment of Ratni Studio Mostar (Mostar War Radio), broadcasting to those on the east bank. Local lad Dragi Šestić, no musician but an avid fan of rock and blues with a keen ear, volunteered to join the staff and soon became the head of the (tiny) music department. Part of the station’s activity was mounting cultural events in the evenings. It was at one of these candle-lit cultural events that Dragi first heard Ilijaz (Izo) Delić, a one-time professional singer, man-about-town and raconteur, and a seasoned and versatile performer. Struck by his voice, which reminded him of John Lee Hooker and which he describes as a “broken baritone,” Dragi approached him and his accompanist, accordionist Elmedin (Titi) Balalić, suggesting that they record some Bosnian standards for the radio.

On November 9, 1993, the Old Bridge – constructed during Ottoman rule in the 16th century – was shelled by Croat forces and collapsed into the river below. People gathered in horror and disbelief. On leave from fighting on the frontline, Bosnian Army soldier Mustafa (Mujo) Santić picked up an accordion, and as he played, those who were present began singing. The strangeness and the emotion of the scene deeply moved members of the international press corps who were there. For most, it was their first encounter with sevdalinka, and it was from their reaction that MSR’s dream that one day, when the war was over, ‘the whole world will know about sevdah’ was born.

In 1994, Šestić left for Holland, only returning four years later. At a loose end, he made contact with Mostar’s Pavarotti Music Centre, set up after the war to provide education, therapy and reconciliation through art, run at the time by an international staff. As Dragi tells it, he met organisers Eugene Skeef and David Wilson, asking them whether they had heard any of the local music. As he was talking, Izo himself chanced to walk in, followed shortly after by Mujo, not only a fine accordionist but a trained clarinettist who was looking for a teaching job. They gave a brief impromptu performance, which turned out to be an audition, as two days later, they were in the centre’s finely equipped studio, making a demo along with local drummer Senad Trnovac. They only recorded three songs, but one of them, ‘Moj Dilbere’, was a turning point, a happy accident which came to determine the band’s approach.

With a wide melodic range, irregular phrasing, some strikingly memorable instrumental interjections, and opportunities for the singer to create drama, the song is not quite a typical sevdalinka. But it had never been thought of as anything other than mainstream. Since they had not rehearsed, the musicians in the studio were discussing ideas when Šestić, who was mainly there as a facilitator, suggested using a rhythm more typical of rock than sevdah. Senad demurred, objecting that “it doesn’t go like that,” and the other two agreed. Nevertheless, they gave it a chance, Mujo was convinced to add a keyboard bassline, and by the time it was done, everyone seemed happy. A torch song became a driving dance number.

That was probably the moment when Šestić became a producer, and the band’s working method gelled; as he puts it, “I have always felt most comfortable working with this band – I don’t have to explain too much with these musicians.” In my own experience with them in the studio (when recording Amira Medunjanin’s debut, Rosa), any suggestion is considered, attempted, rapidly developed and equally rapidly adopted or rejected. It’s an exhilarating way to work and plays as much with the ‘sound of surprise’ as any jazz performance. But the story captures a duality in the band, not unlike that of the city where it was born, a tension between experimenters and traditionalists which was to become increasingly uncomfortable as time passed. The idea had always been to adapt local music for
Western ears without losing its intimate connection to the city and its people, but as Mišo Petrovic tells it, Mujo and himself were “on different sides of the musical river, and Dragi was the bridge.”

Mišo, along with Sandi Duraković, was one of two Mostar guitarists resident in Holland, who added overdubs to a recording of the group that caught the attention of Haarlem’s World Connection. Both Mišo and Duraković had a rock and pop background but were familiar with the sound of sevdah. Mišo recalls hearing his accordionist father playing it, or it spilling out of bars, radios and TVs, although he never played it himself. In 1999, the true Reunion happened, as musicians and guests of all three ethnicities (Bosniak, Serb and Croat) gathered in Mostar to record their debut album, which included the coup of a guest appearance by the legendary Macedonian Rom singer Esma Redžepova. Opening with the natural sounds of water and stone, Izo and Mujo duet on a dark, overtly emotional rendition of the classic ‘Asik Osta’ Na Te Oci’. Earlier singers had frowned on expressing emotion to this extent – it wasn’t ‘proper’ – yet the roots of the music are still evident in a fusion that was to prove fruitful over the coming years.

Buoyed by the success of their debut, the band embarked on a kind of living archaeology project. Encouraged by his parents, Šestić tracked down two lost legends of Roma song from its heyday before the war: Šaban Bajramović, a bon viveur with an extraordinary voice and stunning technique; and Ljiljana Petrović, finally located in exile in Germany, now named Ljiljana Buttler. A woman with a salty wit and a dark-brown, confiding voice, she was to record three albums for Šestić’s Snail Records before she died in 2010, two years after Bajramović.

MSR have never been a backing or pick-up band hired to accompany star singers. Rather, they are partners in a process of developing arrangements to complement singers’ qualities, and, following these collaborations, they focused once more on sevdalinka. A Secret Gate (2003) was more mature and varied, the duality of the city itself once again reflected in the tensions between the members’ differing outlooks. These came to a head during a tour of Australia in 2006, where a large part of their audience was drawn from the Yugoslav diaspora, feeding their nostalgia by listening to the more traditional sounds of their youth. Both Mujo and Izo were more comfortable catering to this public, while the younger members still wanted to push ahead into fresh fields and not dwindle into what might be nothing but a tribute act. The sessions for a projected new album, Café Sevdah, had not gone well either – as both Dragi and Mišo told me, “the magic was gone.”

The break-up was fairly amicable, but there were briefly two bands named Mostar Sevdah Reunion on the circuit; as it transpired, the global appetite for nostalgia was less than the mutineers had assumed. Café Sevdah was meanwhile being revisited by the loyalists, a small core aided by guest musicians and singers, including Elmedin Balalić from the wartime years. The majority of those joining were younger and experienced with many kinds of music; while remaining “organically linked” to its roots, in Mišo’s words, the band enjoyed a fresher spirit. Although they continued to perform, there were fewer recordings, and it took some time to get the ‘magic’ back. It was not until 2022 that they enjoyed a sharply focused return to form with the powerful Lady Sings the Balkan Blues, featuring Antonija Batinić as lead vocalist. Antonija combined her knowledge of traditional song with a rock sensibility, drawing on singers such as Janis Joplin, Amy Winehouse and Tina Turner to radiate emotional authenticity and introduce a range of feelings unprecedented in sevdah: frustration, bitterness and even anger. MSR have always been a Bosnian band playing Bosnian music, but its musicians are also steeped in popular styles. They have made a journey understanding music and then sharing it with the world.

This year, they are celebrating the anniversary by kicking out the jams with their most radical departure yet. Bosa Mara, their latest release, remains deeply responsive to the music of their native soil while drawing on other Balkan music, incorporating bluegrass and bolero, and welcoming flamenco singer Pedro el Granaíno and Cameroonian Muntu Valdo. Their future is as unpredictable as ever – the sophisticated romance of classic urban starogradske pjesme with its echoes of Austria-Hungary are one possibility, it seems. We won’t know until the band get together and start exploring new atmospheres, workshopping new material, and finding fresh settings for yet-unfaded melodies.

This article originally appeared in the December 2024 issue of Songlines. Never miss an issue – subscribe today