The first full-length studio album from Idoli, Odbrana I Poslednji Dani isn’t just a record – it’s a statement, a cultural artefact, and for many (myself included), a turning point. Coming off the back of their wildly successful debut EP VIS Idoli, this 1982 LP would have felt like a bold detour: abstract, experimental, and deeply cerebral. And though it may have sold significantly less (50,000 vs. 200,000 copies for VIS Idoli), its impact, I’d argue, has only grown over time.
The album’s title, taken from Borislav Pekić’s 1977 novella of the same name, hints at the philosophical and spiritual roots running through the music, with the cover art – a cloth detail from a Saint Nicholas icon – driving that theme home. There’s a sense of reverence, mystery, and unease built into the very DNA of this record. It’s not just post-rock, punk, or new wave – it’s theology, it’s existentialism, it’s the sound of a country shifting under its own weight.
I still vividly remember my first listen. This wasn’t just another discovery on Spotify – it genuinely changed how I approach music, and in many ways, led to the creation of this blog. Odbrana I Poslednji Dani is on the short list of albums that altered my musical trajectory. And yet, I feel like I still can’t fully appreciate it – I’m let down by my lack of knowledge of their language. I look forward to the day I can connect with it completely.
What strikes me most is how this album balances beauty and chaos – often in the same breath. It’s reminiscent of groups that defined the ’70s: Joy Division, Television, Talking Heads. And I truly believe that if this record had reached the same audiences English-speaking bands did, it would be spoken of in the same breath.
The second track, Poslednji Dani, is a personal favourite. It feels like the centrepiece of the album’s tension: hypnotic and melancholic, experimental yet emotionally grounded. I’ve returned to it almost weekly for over a year now. On the other end, Nemo is completely off the rails – shrieking electronics, unhinged rhythms, sheer sonic madness – and yet it works. It’s like a mirror held up to a Yugoslavia without Tito: tense, weird, uncertain. That shimmering keyboard solo still stops me in my tracks every time – a moment of transcendence buried in the noise.
There’s industrial grit in the abstract Moja Si, punk swagger in Kenozoik, and ghostly reflection in Odbrana. Some tracks creep forward with eerie restraint; others explode in post-punk flashes. And in the middle of it all, ballad-like moments such as Nebeska Tema offer brief windows of calm and clarity.
This isn’t a record to casually throw on. It asks something of you. But if you give it time, it reveals layers – about art, tradition, philosophy and upheaval. Idoli weren’t just making music, or art, here; they were staging a defence of something deeply personal and incredibly complex. They took their time recording it – so much so that Jugoton wasn’t happy. I suggest you give it the same respect when listening.
It may not be the most accessible EX-YU album, but I believe it’s one of the most important. And now I’m on the hunt for Pekić’s novel, as I’m sure you will be too… 😉
