NIGHTLIFE & ENTERTAINMENT 36 | BOROMAG.COM | JULY 2014 Gypsies The Beer Garden is packed. Boisterous twenty-somethings behind the Bohemian Hall pound pilsners, while thirty and fortysomethings chase after their gravel-kicking kids who end up cackling in their fathers’ arms as they make involuntary trips back to communal tables. The wait staff runs around, delivering fresh pitchers topped with clouds of suds, and swiftly jotting down food orders. Everyone is happy. And the band— Bad Buka—hasn’t even taken the stage yet. Around 8 p.m., the large lean-to-like structure at the far side of the wooden dance floor gradually becomes crowded with people and instruments. Charlie Schmid tap-taps his snare and kick-kicks his bass drum for the sound guy. John Sully, another percussionist, mimics Schmid with his various playthings, while John Carlson tests his trumpet and Ben Backus thuds his bass. Chris Lovrin and Cooper Gorrie tune their guitars—though Cooper will later show off his bass-playing and horn-blowing skills too—and, always on the left, Kari Bethke guides a bow over her violin. Fauxhawked Carla and Diana, sisters of Chris, give their mics a check, and finally, Slavko Bosnjak—who is tall, Christ-like, and sporting a patterned handkerchief across his forehead—takes his center mic, and through a heavy Croatian accent, says, “Hello, Hello!” as more of a greeting than a volume check. The dance floor is now populated only sparsely. These are the people who have come to see Bad Buka perform, some rocking the band’s signature black tees with white, block lettering spelling out the group’s name twice for emphasis. Meanwhile, the rest of the house sits at the rustic tables growing nervous at the thought of their fluid conversations coming to a screeching halt with the presence of a mediocre bar band. What they don’t realize is they’re about to be turned into fans, and their kids will too, because Bad Buka are seasoned performers armed with a tractor-beam aura, powered by their upbeat, unique Balkan punk tunes, and their message of love and friendship. But this ten-piece band of gypsies didn’t end up together without an incredible, serendipitous story paving the way. In 1999’s Croatian tourist season, Slavko was living in his native country, on the island of Lošinj, selling knick-knacks out of the back of a van he also called home. He was 24 years old, had served in the nation’s army, seeing action in two conflicts, including their war for independence. He was a wanderer with no real direction—a literal gypsy. “I wasn’t really thinking about what I was going to do with my life,” he says. “I was just enjoying myself. I never thought about marriage and a family.” Slavko went into town with a friend one Ban d of Carla Bosnjak, Chris Lovrin, Slavko Bosnjak, and Diana Lovrin
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