Crni Panteri - The Blek Panteri

 

Just out from the City Centre is a large park on an island. It’s a recreation hotspot full of football pitches, rowing clubs and healthy looking Serbs rollerblading round in circles. Around the back of the island though, things start to look a little scruffier. Broken glass and mangy cats line the paths and just past the point at which most would decide to turn back, a painted sign on a wall points the way to The Black Panther.

 

We were glad to have found it. Whenever we asked about Roma music in Belgrade people muttered something about a Panther. Everyone had heard of the place but no-one could tell us exactly where it was. The guy in our hostel had simply said  ‘I hear it gets a little wild down there’. Even Boba (who had earlier gatecrashed a wedding just to show us how the ceremonies were done) had suggested we should be cautious on any trip to hunt down the Blek Panther.

 

We found our way to the floating shack sometime in the mid-afternoon and crossed the rickety bridge over the sludgy rubbish filled river bank. The place was empty apart from a groggy looking Roma guy drinking a coke. “Are you open?” I ask - “No!”

 

Undeterred I continue in my dodgy Serbian, “my friend here wants to film your venue…” (Jamie waves timidly then continues to hide behind me). The gruff man tells us that filming would be ‘difficult’ but he gives us a card with a mobile number for his brother - Slobodan.  

 

Slobo, whose title on the card was ‘Chef Orkestr’, answers his mobile in a savvy, business-like manner. He listens to my prepared Serbian spiel and then answers in perfect English “Sure bring the camera, the music starts at ten.”

 

We arrive a little nervous but are promptly greeted by a girl of 8 roller-skating round the barge. Inside Slobodan explains that the bar, the food, the music, the whole thing has been run by his family for 17 years. The band - and it seems the rest of the family  - call themselves the Blek Panthers.

 

We ate cevapci (meatballs), toasted Wayne Rooney with the barman and watched the tables fill with people. The club was soon the Kustirican scene we had hoped for. The band moved around the room and the drunken audience sang, danced and shouted along to the tunes.

 

Jamie did some filming and I chatted to Zoran, a sizable Serbian security guard about the price of cigarettes in the UK.  The music got faster and the floor began to bounce on the water. At 3am some people arrived that some other people didn’t like, men stood up, chairs and drinks fell over, ladies began to shout.  The mighty Zoran said “I’m getting out of here,” so we decided leave.

 

We wobbled our way back along the gangplank as the band (who had decided to stop playing) shouted friendly farewells. The moon lit up the filthy riverbank underneath. I’m sure the scruffy side of Belgrade will be cleaned up soon enough. Here’s hoping the music stays rough at the edges.