Svemirko arrived on the Croatian scene in the late 2010. The Zagreb-based group makes no secret of their influences — they are revivalists, openly channeling the synthpop and new wave textures of the Ex-YU ‘80s, with Darko Rundek and Haustor casting a particularly long shadow. But they aren’t a nostalgia act either. On their debut, Tunguzija, Svemirko package those familiar sounds into something warm, dreamy, and strangely hypnotic, finding a new audience that packs venues like Boogaloo even if the band remains outside the mainstream.
The artwork already sets the tone: sunset tones, soft light, a hazy beach evening. The music follows suit — relaxed, bittersweet, never in a rush.
The opener, Dizajnerica Laura, floats in calmly, an indie-synthpop hybrid with a hypnotic sway. It’s effortless, like an evening stroll along the coast, hazy guitars drifting over sleepy synths. Meni Se Ne Svira follows, leaning deeper into that 80s palette. There’s a Rundek-like cadence in the hook, something that could have slipped off a Sejmeni tape, playful and familiar if not exactly original. Still, it’s catchy and light enough to hold your attention.
By the time 34,5 arrives, Svemirko feel more adventurous. Funky bass grooves and bright, New Order-inspired synths pull the track closer to the dancefloor. It’s lively, one of the most immediately engaging cuts here, even if the vocals are kept distant and dreamlike. That dreaminess continues with Zauvijek Zen, easily a highlight of the record — its dreamy guitar riff and soft shimmer evoke the edges of dream pop, giving the album its most replayable moment.
But not every track lands. Kako Da Znam and Šapat drift into repetition, their choruses blurring into one another until the synthpop glaze becomes indistinguishable. It’s here that Tunguzija shows its limits — the band’s aesthetic is clear, but without more variation, it begins to dull the impact.
Then, suddenly, the album wakes up again. Slučajna Cesta bursts in with a Strokes-like riff before tumbling into spoken word vocals reminiscent of Rundek’s Sejn. It’s fresh, playful, and far too short. Right after, Gdje Si Do Sad doubles down on that experimentation with sharper synths and more distinct vocal delivery, finally giving the record the bite it had been missing. It’s frustrating, in a way — these late gems show what Svemirko could be if they leaned harder into experimentation instead of playing it safe.
The closer, Odgovoran Ljubavnik, falls back into the safe zone of soft synthpop, ending things on a weaker note after that late spark of energy.
In the end, Tunguzija is a pleasant, chilled-out listen — a sunset soundtrack more than a late-night revelation. It’s an album that makes no attempt to hide its influences, borrowing liberally from Haustor, Rundek, and 80s synthpop, sometimes to the point of imitation. That may be intentional — Svemirko themselves admit as much — but it also keeps the album from feeling truly vital. Still, when they do hit, like on Zauvijek Zen, Slučajna Cesta, or Gdje Si Do Sad, the results show a band capable of making something more than pastiche.
For me, Tunguzija sits as an enjoyable but uneven debut: hypnotic and dreamy at its best, bland and repetitive at its worst. A band with promise, but still searching for their own orbit.
