By the late ’80s, Yugoslav rock had reached a strange crossroads. EKV were turning post-punk anxiety into poetry, Haustor were flirting with world music, and the underground was shifting toward darkness. Then came Psihomodo Pop — loud, fun, and unserious in the best way possible.
Formed in Zagreb and led by the magnetic Davor Gobac, the band injected a jolt of energy and absurdity into the scene. Their name was a cheeky fusion of Cockney Rebel’s The Psychomodo and Iggy Pop — two fitting influences for a group that lived somewhere between glam swagger and punk chaos. Gobac, often performing in makeup or women’s clothing, treated rock & roll as theatre: loud, sweaty, and defiantly unserious.
Produced by Ivan “Piko” Stančić (of Time and Parni Valjak fame) and released on Jugoton, Godina Zmaja was their debut — and an instant hit. The band became a fixture of late-’80s Yugoslav pop culture, earning European attention through gigs in Amsterdam and even an MTV feature.
The album opens with Kad Sam Imao 16, a pure pop-punk anthem with shades of The Ramones and The Cars. It’s fast, funny, and irresistibly catchy — teenage rebellion filtered through new wave gloss. Gobac’s delivery is playful and charismatic, and the band’s chemistry crackles from the first riff.
Nebo keeps the momentum going — a breezy, good-natured rocker that sounds like it was written for summer drives and smoky bars. The band never overthinks it; these songs work precisely because they don’t try too hard.
Frida is the standout — the kind of simple, perfect pop-rock track that burrows into your head after one listen. It’s confident, melodic, and full of character. Even when the lyrics don’t reach far, the energy carries everything.
Nema Nje — featuring Film’s Mladen Juričić and backing vocals from actresses Mira Furlan, Dubravka Ostojić, and Stjepka Kavurić — is another highlight. It’s glossy, punchy, and tailor-made for radio play, cementing the band’s knack for combining attitude with pop craftsmanship.
The second half of the record dips into covers, with mixed results. Hej, Djevojko, their take on The Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend,” and Rano Jutro, a rework of Velvet Underground’s “Sunday Morning,” both showcase the band’s influences but feel slightly redundant when their originals are this strong. Sure, they’re fun — but Psihomodo Pop are at their best when they’re writing themselves.
Between those, Ja Volim Samo Sebe and Ona Vrišti Da Voli Me keep the energy high, even if the formula starts to show. These are pivnica anthems: simple, singable, and perfectly unpretentious.
What makes Godina Zmaja work is its sense of fun. It’s not groundbreaking, and it’s certainly not deep. This is an album made for movement, for singing along, and for living in the moment. The guitars buzz, the drums thump with garage precision, and Gobac sneers his way through it all like the Balkan Iggy Pop.
In hindsight, Godina Zmaja wasn’t a turning point for Yugoslav rock, but it is a reminder that even as the decade darkened, the scene could still laugh at itself. Psihomodo Pop weren’t prophets or poets — they simply made punk rock fun again.
A spirited, silly, and irresistibly catchy debut — Zagreb’s answer to MTV-era punk.
