In the mid-1980s, Yugoslavia was moving through one of its most vocal decades. Cities like Ljubljana, Zagreb, and Belgrade were evolving as Western European social change bled into Yugoslav music. Beneath concrete apartment blocks and state-run television, a new kind of sound was taking form: progressive, hedonistic, and full of irony. It was in Ljubljana, the smallest of the three cities, that Videosex emerged.
Formed in 1982, Videosex embodied a strange, glamorous kind of rebellion. Fronted by Anja Rupel, whose sensual, magnetic vocals became a symbol for the era that the band’s very name resembled. It was something between performance art and provocation, erotic and playful. Janez Križaj’s bass, Iztok Turk’s drums, and the twin keyboards of Matjaž Kosi and Nina Sever completed the sound.
Their debut self-titled LP was released in 1984, bringing nationwide media attention to the band whose image felt quietly transgressive. Rupel wasn’t the typical female pop vocalist: her delivery was poised and distant as she sang about sex, serial killers, loss, and longing. Later on, they would open for Parni Valjak and hold a joint concert with Katarina II (later EKV) and Otroci Socializma (a band I’ve not heard of).
The opener Detektivska Priča is irresistible: a pulsing, flirtatious synth line and a fantastic drum machine. The lyrics play with the listener — a woman prowling through the city, not looking for love, but leaving corpses in her wake. It’s delivered with humour and irony, the kind of dark playfulness that Ljubljana’s scene (led by bands like Laibach) had mastered. But where Laibach used militaristic parody, Videosex used sexuality as rebellion.
And in 1984 Yugoslavia, that mattered. Homosexuality had only recently been decriminalised in Slovenia and Croatia (1977), and while Ljubljana was already home to one of the region’s earliest LGBTQ+ movements, the rest of the republics lagged behind. To be queer, or even to flirt with queerness in public, was an act of subtle defiance. In this sense, Videosex acts as a time capsule of a society where sexual liberation was under constant scrutiny.
And in 1984 Yugoslavia, that mattered. Homosexuality had only recently been decriminalised in Slovenia and Croatia (1977), and while Ljubljana was already home to one of the region’s earliest LGBTQ+ movements, the rest of the republics lagged behind. To be queer, or even to flirt with queerness in public, was an act of subtle defiance. In this sense, Videosex acts as a time capsule of a society where sexual liberation was under constant scrutiny.
The song Ana lingers with its gentle synth-pop exterior, hiding a story that feels both intimate and unsettling: a young woman’s first experience with another girl, told through fragments of uncertainty and fear. The track reminds me of Boa, another self-titled LP that I picked up in the UK — both filled with anxious tension and danceable synth-pop hits. It’s also worth noting that just a year after this LP was released, Toni Marošević became the first openly gay media personality — hosting a radio show in Croatia — really highlighting how ahead of its time this album was.
Even the band’s lighter tracks, such as Moja Mama and Kako Bih Volio Da Si Tu, carry a deeper emotional weight. Moja Mama plays like a lost disco hit, full of bounce and warmth, but delve deeper and you’ll find lyrics that hide a deeply personal story of a sorely missed absent mother.
There’s also a thread of gender play running through the album. U Sjeni Egzotičnih Trava toys with cross-dressing and sexual inversion. It’s easy to hear the influence of The Human League (the vocal delivery is eerily similar to Don’t You Want Me), which is unsurprising given the Sheffield band’s lasting legacy.
The closing tracks: Videosex (a personal favourite), Neonska Reklama, and its instrumental reprise, seal the album’s nocturnal atmosphere. By this point, you’re deep inside Videosex’s progressive cityscape — a world of flickering neon lights, rain-slicked windows, and unresolved desire. The repetition, the cold drum machine, and lingering synths all feel cinematic, like the end credits to a cult classic. It’s a vision of modern life in transition.
Listening to Videosex in 2025 is to hear a generation wrestling with its own image in the mirror, a struggle that continues into the present day through other forms. This was significant music with an important message; turning pop music into social commentary — all without ever losing its charm. Beneath the irony and eroticism was something profoundly human: the search for love and freedom in a country that was learning how to show its desire publicly for the first time.
In the years that followed, Videosex would remain both a cult group and a curiosity. Anja Rupel would become an icon of Novi Val femininity. But this debut stands apart not just as a piece of musical history, but as a statement of a moment when the Yugoslav youth were rewriting history for themselves — queer, self-aware, and defiantly free under the neon light.
