Formed in 1976 as one of the country’s earlier punk outfits, Paraf were loud and confrontational, playing raw, jagged anthems — something different to the synth-stained post-punk sound that would define this record. But the ‘80s came quickly in Yugoslavia, and the arrival of Pavica “Vim Cola” Mijatović on vocals, along with keyboardist Raul Varlen, pushed the group into more obscure, darker synth punk territory. What they ended up creating was in a similar vein to Elektricni Orgazam’s debut — gothic, abstract and dystopian.
Released in 1981, Izleti always reminds me of how much I grew up on the shadowy corners of UK post-punk. Those two Joy Division records, The Chameleons’ Script of the Bridge, and The Cure’s coldest moments — the way a tracklist could feel both full of shadows and intensely alive. Paraf tap into that same feeling, but their version is unmistakably rooted in the foggy punk scene of coastal Rijeka. The album opens with tense neon synths and Vim Cola’s voice cutting through the haze. There’s something dystopian and cyberpunk about it, as if Paraf are sketching their own version of Yugoslavia’s emerging dark or cold wave.
Not everything here hits with the same weight as the first two tracks drift around, feeling more atmospheric than catchy. But then Javna Kupatila arrives, and suddenly the whole album snaps into focus. The melancholic and addictive synth loop, the warm but restless bassline, Vim’s voice floating above everything: it’s one of those songs that feels like it’s always existed somewhere in the architecture of Ex-YU music, waiting for someone to uncover it. Every time I hear it, I’m reminded a bit of Idoli’s Odbrana i Poslednji Dani — it truly feels like a lost cut from that record with the same interplay of fragility and tension, pop rock catchiness and post-punk originality.
There are other moments where the album spirals into the kind of unease that made early post-punk so intoxicating. Ružan San feels like Paraf channelling their inner Joy Division with its stark and cold atmosphere, accompanied by deep, minimalist and restrained vocals from Vim. Meanwhile, Nestašni Đački Izleti writhes with jagged no-wave edges and Ian Curtis-like vocals. It feels like the soundtrack to a dystopian apocalypse, a societal collapse. Even the strange, Fellini-inspired Federico u Bačvi adds to this sense of a band experimenting with theatricality, testing how far they can push their own sound without breaking it completely.
Side B continues with the same post-punk energy on the first side with Zelim Biti Vojnik. It’s an unsettling track — awkward and intentionally uncomfortable. Vim’s vocals are perfect for the unsettling soundtrack of a soldier. Ti Jos Nisi feels more upbeat and playful, perhaps more new wave in spirit. I guess here we get a sense that a few songs feel almost peripheral, sketches of ideas rather than fully realised statements. But even these weaker stretches contribute to the sensation that Izleti can be inconsistent, but it’s still a potential, fully realised and deeply human record.
The closer, Frka, ends the album as if rewinding to the beginning — distortion, decay, something collapsing into itself. It doesn’t resolve anything, but maybe that’s the point.
More than four decades later, Izleti still feels like one of those quietly influential records, perhaps not essential but definitely significant for post-punk fans. It’s rough, uneven, and imperfect, yet filled with moments of startling intensity and edginess. For me, it sits comfortably as one of the most compelling documents of Yugoslav post-punk’s early years, a dark and atmospheric relic that still sounds strangely modern.
