Thompson, Zagreb, and Me (Not There, Obviously)
Right now, as I write this, Zagreb is swelling. The Hippodrome is a living organism, a throbbing nationalist jellyfish with stage lights and questionable lyrics. Marko Perković Thompson is performing tonight, and half a million people—yes, half a million—are descending on the city like history never happened.
I’m not there.
Of course I’m not there.
I like my hearing intact, my brain unscrambled, and my critical faculties un-lobotomised by crowd euphoria.
Instead, I’m in my house, windows closed, scribbling at my work table, trying to make sense of what it means to live in a country where a concert like this is not only possible, but celebrated like a spiritual homecoming.
“It’s Not Political”
That’s the line they keep repeating, like a bad hook in a bad remix: “It’s not political, it’s just music.”
Sure. And I guess fireworks aren’t dangerous if you’re just watching them from your balcony.
They say people are coming from all over—Germany, Austria, Switzerland. The diaspora answering the call of the homeland like it’s a Marvel origin story. Except the hero here is a man who built his career on war nostalgia, religious symbolism, and subtle (and not-so-subtle) flirtations with fascist aesthetics.
But no, it’s just a concert. A “gathering.” A record-breaking celebration of culture. Like Eurovision, if Eurovision wore combat boots and shouted “Za dom spremni” into a reverb mic.
The City Holds Its Breath
The police are out. The ambulances are waiting. The drone ban is in place. Even the birds seem confused. Zagreb is holding its breath, as if bracing for an emotional riot.
Meanwhile, on Instagram, everyone’s either posting from the crowd or pretending they’re too cool to care. Which is fair. But also: how do you not care?
A stadium full of people shouting along to lyrics that reference “blood” and “homeland” and “sacrifice,” while waving flags and crying? I’ve seen this film before. It doesn’t end with a cute encore.
Watching from the Couch
I’m not above watching clips. I doom scroll like the rest of us. A sea of waving arms, lights blazing, someone’s uncle sobbing as Thompson hits a high note. You can practically smell the patriotism and roasted sausage through the screen.
I try to imagine being there.
Would I feel something?
Would I accidentally start singing along?
Would I end up buying a T-shirt, losing a piece of my moral backbone in the merch queue?
Maybe that’s why I stayed home. Not because I hate it—but because I’m scared it might work.
That the crowd might seduce me. That I might forget why this whole thing is terrifying.
Because it is terrifying. Not in a horror-movie way, but in that subtle, post-modern way where symbols and songs blur together, and suddenly you’re at a concert celebrating a version of your country you don’t recognise, but everyone around you does.
Irony Doesn’t Work on 500,000 People
I keep trying to be clever about it.
Make a joke.
Find the metaphor.
But when a half a million people gather to worship a myth, the punchlines start to feel small. Irony loses altitude at this scale. It’s hard to be sardonic when the bass is shaking the pavement.
And still, I scroll. Watch. Judge. Laugh.
Because from a distance, everything’s funny.
Up close, it’s just history doing karaoke in a national costume.
Final Scene (Still Writing, Still Not There)
The concert isn’t even over yet, and I already feel exhausted.
Not from the sound.
Not from the traffic.
From the ache of watching a nation choose a symbol that sings louder than it listens.
Maybe tomorrow there’ll be think pieces.
Maybe next week someone will mention the salutes, the flags, the not-so-subtle symbols.
Maybe nobody will care.
But tonight, Zagreb roars.
And I sit in silence.
Trying to hold onto irony like it’s the last cigarette in a city that’s already on fire.
Erika Matic is a writer, mother, and professional overthinker based in Sveta Nedelja. She documents the absurd, the intimate, and the politically inconvenient—often from her room, rarely from inside the crowd. More at www.erikamatic.com.
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