"MY FIRST TIME AT THE SPLIT FESTIVAL" - The English version of my story "PRVI PUT NA SPLITSKOM FESTIVALU"

 

One Year, One Dream

About ten days ago, I turned 19. I think it’s finally time to release my first song. I’ve been writing diligently every single day for years.

I’ve decided that my debut should be performed at the Split Festival. I know—it’s naive to think that such a decision depends solely on my wishes.

Prokurative is my musical sanctuary. The place where, without exception, I make a pilgrimage with my parents every year—literally since I first learned to walk.

My lifelong dream has been to be part of that magnificent and most prestigious musical event in all of Yugoslavia.

All the biggest singers perform there: Mišo, Oliver, Meri, Tereza, Miki, Vajta, Novi Fosili, Pejaković...

I flip through the thick telephone directory of the city of Split, searching for Zdenko Runjić’s number.

Since last year, 1988, he has been the new director of the Split Festival, replacing Professor Josip Mirošević, who has retired.

Zdenko is a legend among composers. Probably the greatest songwriter in this region, and I know I need to act fast. I have to go straight to the top.

I called him.

"Yes?" A slightly stern male voice answered.

"Good afternoon, may I speak with Mr. Zdenko Runjić?"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"This is Ernest Pelaić. I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you. I have a song that I’d like to submit for the festival, and I was wondering—would there be any way for me to show it to you? Just to see if it might interest you?"

"Uhhh, you caught me in the middle of something… Do you have a recording of the song?"

"Not yet, but that’s no problem—I can record it whenever it suits you," I answered eagerly.

"Bring me a cassette recording of it tomorrow at Radio Split. Don’t waste money on a studio recording—just play it with some instrument, whatever you play, and sing it informally so I can get the idea. Then we’ll talk."

"Aha… Do you need sheet music as well?"

Damn, I just wanted to let him know that I can read music. Maybe it would help.

"How old are you? From your voice, I’d say you’re pretty young."

"I just turned 19," I said, as if those were some great, mature years.

He laughed—a warm, good-natured laugh. At least, that’s how I took it. Maybe he liked my boldness, my direct approach. Or as he himself would put it: "A finger in the eye."

"No, I don’t need the sheet music. Just record it, and that’s it… Alright, Ernest, see you tomorrow. I have to go now—I’m in the middle of something. Sorry."

I thanked him and said goodbye. And that was our first contact.

People usually don’t even listen when you introduce yourself, but he remembered my name immediately. A simple and approachable man, I thought.

I called Leila and told her everything. She was happy. I told her that I’d start working on the demo immediately and take it to him in the morning.

I sat down at the piano, turned on the cassette recorder, and started recording.

The song is called "Jedna jedina godina" ("One Single Year").

After about 15 minutes, I finally had a recording.

This day ended successfully. Tomorrow, we move on to new victories.

 

Meeting the Legend

In the morning, I woke up a bit earlier. I listened to the recording of my song a few more times, but I wasn’t satisfied with my voice.

Self-doubt had already started creeping in subconsciously. My nerves were getting to me.

In the A-section, I sounded too quiet, and in the chorus, I should have been stronger, more expressive.

Maybe I should have changed some lyrics?

Never mind. I won’t re-record everything now. He’ll understand… hopefully?

I arrived in front of Radio Split.

A big, bald guy was feeding a group of stray cats at the entrance—at least ten of them. He was facing away from me.

As an animal lover, I took that as a good sign.

As I got closer, I recognized Narcis Šarić, the legendary head of Radio Split’s technical department.

For years, every single day, he prepared food at home for these cats and brought it with him to work.

Some of his colleagues hated it, saying: "Why are you turning this place into a zoo?"

But good old Narcis didn’t care at all. He did everything in his signature slow-motion style, just the way he liked it.

At the entrance, I greeted the security guard from Gradska Sigurnost—a friendly guy with a thick, bushy mustache and big, connected eyebrows.

I immediately noticed that he was missing a front tooth, but he didn’t seem to mind. He gave me a big, toothless smile.

He was eating a sandwich made from half a baguette and started talking to me as if we had known each other for years.

"Give me your ID so I can log you in. That’s the protocol here, my friend. Only when I stamp this book, you have the green light to go further!"

While he was entering my details, he looked at me with a mischievous grin and asked:

"Do you know how Ray Charles flirts with women?"

"No idea," I said, confused.

"He says: 'I heard you’re beautiful'… HAHAHAHA!"

He burst into such loud laughter that I thought the entire building was shaking.

He looked at me, waiting for a reaction, his eyes practically begging me to laugh too.

It was such an unexpected situation that I couldn’t help but laugh along, even though I wasn’t sure if I had actually found the joke funny.

But he was so charmingly ridiculous that he won me over with his dark (un)humor.

I nodded at him and gave a thumbs-up. His playfulness lifted my spirits.

"Do you know where Zdenko’s office is?" he asked, handing me back my ID.

I shrugged. "No, I’ve never been here before."

"Alright, listen up, my friend. Go up these long stairs. When you reach the top, turn right towards the elevator, then turn right again. On the left side, you’ll see the recording studio, and on the right, there’s a door that says ‘Music Editorial Office – RS.’ Zdenko is a big shot, but every morning, I tell him a new joke."

I followed his directions and soon found myself in front of Zdenko Runjić’s office.

I paused.

Even though I was pretty confident, I suddenly felt a rush of nerves. This was my first time meeting him in person.

He was a huge name, and I had immense respect for him.

I switched my brain from automatic mode to smart mode. I rarely did that, but this was an important moment.

I knocked—hesitantly.

No response.

I knocked again—louder this time. Instinct took over, and my hand slammed the door harder than I intended.

I worried that I’d get yelled at right away.

"Come in!" he called out from inside, as if he already knew who it was.

I hesitated but slowly pressed the handle and opened the door.

Standing directly face to face with me—Meri Cetinić.

She was just leaving Zdenko’s office.

She greeted me somewhat awkwardly. She even said something to me, but I was too flustered to understand her words. Then she walked away.

Zdenko smiled at me with his signature wide grin and extended his hand.

"You knock well, and I hear well," he said playfully, without any malice, as we shook hands.

After the formal greeting, he sat back down in his chair and began whistling a melody.

It was something he was clearly working on, repeating small variations over and over.

I stood next to his desk, watching him.

I didn’t know where to stand or what to say.

For me, this was an unreal moment, but for him, I didn’t even seem to exist.

He just kept commenting to himself: “… not descending… for the fourth jump… here’s a major, not minor…”

This went on for five or six minutes.

Then suddenly, as if snapping out of a trance, he turned to me and said:

"Sit on that yellow chair… Did you bring the cassette?"

"Yes, here it is," I said, placing it on his desk.

I moved toward the chair he had pointed to, but there was a woman’s handbag on it.

"Where did you say I should sit? There’s a bag here," I asked.

"Oh, for God’s sake! These crazy women… That’s Meri’s bag. I swear, I don’t know how that woman doesn’t lose her head somewhere. But what can I do? She’ll remember in a few days that it’s missing, hahaha!"

He picked up the bag and tossed it into a cabinet.

"Now you can sit down," he laughed, shaking his head. "That woman is always so scatterbrained… Always."

He took the cassette, placed it into a small gray tape recorder, lit a cigarette, and suddenly got serious.

I felt like I was about to be executed by a firing squad.

"This is it," I thought. "I’m done."

My mind raced with anxious thoughts…

What if he doesn’t like it?

What if he tears me apart and says: "Are you kidding me with this?"

He pressed PLAY. He didn’t look at me. Instead, he turned toward the window.

The song began playing.

I closely observed his every move, his facial expressions, the position of his mustache, any possible grimace—but I couldn’t read a single clue from his face.

While listening along with him, I suddenly started noticing a thousand mistakes in my song.

Why did I bring it in like this?

I should have sung it better, recorded it better, prepared it better…

Meanwhile, he tapped his finger on the desk, keeping time with the rhythm.

That gave me hope—maybe he actually liked it?

He was focused. Listening intently. Taking quick drags from his cigarette.

I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign.

He listened until the first chorus—then suddenly stopped the tape.

"Look," he said. "This isn’t bad. In fact, it’s quite good. But a few things need fixing."

 

The Festival Dream Comes True

"First of all," Zdenko continued, "the tempo needs to be a bit faster. Second… Who would be singing this?"

"Leila," I said confidently, as if I had just said, "Tereza."

"Leila who?" he asked, his tone serious, his face puzzled.

"Leila, my girlfriend. But she sings really well, trust me. I guarantee it."

I mean… I was telling Zdenko Runjić—who was hearing my song for the first time and had just met me—that I personally guaranteed a singer he had never heard of.

That was so recklessly self-assured that it must have seriously shocked him.

But in my mind, I was doing him a favor.

He started laughing. But I had the feeling that he actually liked my bold approach.

"So, you’re guaranteeing me that she’s what I need for the festival?"

"Yes, yes… You won’t regret it. Trust me on this. I stand by her!"

I said it with such conviction, dramatically raising my index finger, as if to say: "This is an opportunity you can’t afford to miss!"

He suddenly got serious. He stood up and started pacing around his office.

I followed him with my eyes, thinking to myself: "Now I’ve ruined everything."

Then, he stopped, turned toward me, and said:

"Alright, Ernest. Have her record this song with just a piano and bring it to me. If you’re right, I’ll take both the song and the singer for the festival."

That was music to my ears—but there was just one small problem.

I was the only person in the world who actually believed in her.

I knew that her singing wasn’t extraordinary enough to leave people speechless.

She was good, solid—but there was one factor stronger than fate itself: I WANTED THIS SO BADLY.

My determination must have been the real song that Zdenko heard.

To cut a long story short—Leila and I recorded the song at home, with just a piano.

It took us two days and several hours of recording, but it was enough to convince Zdenko to include the song in the festival lineup.

He invited us to his home for a meeting.

At the time, he still lived in his old apartment in Dubrovačka Street.

On the table, we were greeted with a spread of homemade pastries and juices. A warm, homey atmosphere.

Even though this was the first time he had actually seen Leila, I felt like he saw us as a unit—as if he recognized and respected our love and my need to prove it through this song.

We sat at the table.

His wife, Vedrana, kept smiling knowingly.

Zdenko must have told her the story about how I boldly told him: "I guarantee the singer!" That thought probably crossed her mind again.

Then, Zdenko sat down next to us, looked at us seriously, and said:

"Alright. I’m not one for long speeches. Leila, you’ll be singing this song at the festival. Ernest convinced me that this is what I need. His crazy confidence when he was at Radio Split was a sign that I should take a risk. You should thank him for his courage."

"I won’t waste time. Your recording session will be at Jadran Film in Zagreb. The arrangement will be done by Stipica Kalogjera. You’ll have two days in the studio to record it properly. Branko Podbrežnički will be the sound engineer, and Hrvoje Hegedušić will mix the track. You couldn’t have asked for a better team."

"Your travel costs and per diems are covered—for both of you, of course. How could I separate you two for even a couple of days? Now, dig in and eat something. Safe travels. Tomorrow morning, check in with Mirjana Buljević to get your travel documents and expenses sorted."

Everything so simple, so straightforward.

That was the most beautiful speech I had ever heard—no theatrics, no unnecessary words, no persuasion, no hesitation.

Only the greatest can do that.

That was Zdenko Runjić.

 

The Road to the Festival

We traveled to Zagreb by train. Arrived around 6 AM—right at the moment when dawn swallowed the darkness.

And we were welcomed by the inevitable Zagreb fog.

Maybe I’m one of the rare people who actually loves that fog, but to me, it has a poetry I can’t put into words.

We were staying at Hotel Dubrovnik, right on Trg Republike.

As a kid, I often came here with my parents. I always loved hotel breakfasts.

So after checking in and dropping off our luggage, we headed straight to the restaurant.

That magical Zagreb morning consisted of:

A warm white coffee
Two soft rolls
Butter and honey
A hard-boiled egg
A couple of slices of cheese
A bit of ham

At 7:30 PM, we were scheduled to record Leila’s vocals in Dubrava.

I knew it was best for Leila to get some rest so her voice would be fresh.

I, on the other hand, had my own little Zagreb ritual—places I had to visit every time I was in the city:

Krleža’s house on Gvozd (I had to touch the doorknob)
The zoo in Maksimir
A frappe at Splendid
A walk through Zrinjevac
A few bookstores

Always the same places, and yet it always felt new and exciting.

At 7 PM, we took a taxi to Jadran Film.

Branko Podbrežnički was already there, along with Stipica.

Right before us, Pero Panjković had just finished recording his festival song, "Mornarska abeceda."

We knew Pero well—he immediately cracked a few jokes, and soon we were all laughing hysterically.

Branko played the instrumental track that Stipica had arranged.

It was the first time we heard the full production—everything felt so polished, professional, and flawless.

Like we were in a perfectly engineered spacecraft that was going to take us from point A to point B without a hitch.

Leila turned to me and whispered:

"I’m not nervous at all anymore."

Even though she had been terrified all day, the smoothness of the entire production melted all anxiety away.

She stepped into the huge soundproof room.

I watched through the glass window as Stipica stood beside her, giving her only two small notes of advice before she started singing.

After barely 15 minutes, it was over. The vocal was recorded.

Branko was very impressed. He couldn’t believe this was her first-ever studio session.

By 10 PM, the song was finished.

The next day, around noon, Branko handed me the master tape.

It was the only copy.

No digital backups, no emails, no cloud storage.

If you lost it or damaged it—too bad.

So we guarded it like gold and personally carried it back to Split.

And that’s how our dream made its way to Prokurative.

The Split Festival 1989 – The Dream Becomes Reality

As the festival approached, I visited Runjić at Radio Split every day, keeping him updated on every tiny detail regarding my song.

I would tell him what outfit Leila had chosen for the performance, what people were saying about the song, every little thing.

At some point, I started thinking:

"He’s probably sick of me and my song by now. Maybe he even dreams about me at night?"

I had become a permanent fixture in his life, like Jim Carrey in The Cable Guy.

I practically lived in his office for a month.

I overheard his personal and business phone calls.

One day, his phone rang while he was whistling a new melody. He looked at me and said:

"Secretary, answer the phone!"

I picked up.

It was Nenad Ninčević.

Zdenko took the receiver.

"Miroslav Škoro called me," he said. "He’s pissed because you sold the same lyrics to both him and some Slovenian singer. He’s fuming. Said you need to call him back immediately. I don’t have time—here, talk to my new personal secretary, Ernest."

He burst out laughing as he handed me the phone.

Backstage at the Festival

The day of the festival arrived.

Leila was set to perform sixth.

Backstage, the chaos was in full swing.

The amount of hustle and bustle was only possible at the Split Festival.

Even though only performers and accredited personnel were allowed backstage, the place was filled with journalists, photographers, TV crews, sports stars, actors…

Medenko had his own honey and herbal tea stand, offering them to everyone and explaining their magical effects on vocal cords.

Leila and I were mostly hanging out with Danijela Martinović, Nikša Krpetić, Zdravko Škender, Mario Ušić (Škender’s driver), and lyricist Bratislav Zlatanović.

Zdravko bragged about how women threw themselves at him.

"This one girl from Macedonia," he said, "her father is the chief editor of their national TV station. She wrote me a letter saying she’d kill herself if I don’t marry her. What should I do?"

"I’m already married, but this one is tempting me to sin!" he added with a laugh.

Meanwhile, Frane Šiško, already visibly drunk, was angrily looking for someone to beat up.

Oliver sat at the bar with the Smoje twins, drinking whiskey and cracking jokes.

Stavros was yelling at the hairdresser, accusing her of ruining his hair and making his head look enormous.

Ivo Pukanić, back then just a photographer for Start magazine, was roaming around trying to convince young female singers to pose naked for a poolside photoshoot at Hotel Marjan—offering them front covers.

Runjić kept passing by with a cigarette in his mouth, checking that everything was running smoothly, but never stopping for long.

It was one giant creative madhouse.

As Smoje would say, all that was missing was a circus tent.

 

Showtime

The Split Festival 1989 officially began.

"Nima Splita do Splita" was playing.

This was my first time as an official songwriter at the festival. I was excited but mostly nervous about Leila’s live performance.

She, however, was completely calm.

While the first performances were underway, she was at Kino Marjan, getting her hair fixed by Bačo, the famous hairstylist.

Meanwhile, I was waiting in the transition zone, watching both the stage and the dressing area.

And then—I accidentally stumbled upon a scene that demanded my attention.

A young debutant singer, a close friend from school, was casually getting changed backstage.

She was completely topless, rummaging through her big red bag, looking for something to wear.

She was turned sideways, so I froze in place—completely by accident, of course.

Sensing someone nearby, she turned toward me—now fully frontal.

"Just for your eyes, my friend," she said with a smile, completely unbothered by the eight other male eyes staring at her chest.

Her perfectly shaped profile seemed to say:

"Careful—I might shoot."

I gratefully accepted the "gift" and immediately thought of Pukanić:

"Where the hell is Puki now? His dream assignment is happening right under his nose."

Although I didn’t want to, I eventually had to leave.

 

Leila’s Performance

Time flew by.

Leila was still sitting in the hairstylist’s chair, laughing and chatting with Bačo.

Meanwhile, I was panicking that she’d miss her performance.

"How can she be so calm?" I thought.

I wanted to go over and yell at her, but I was afraid of making her nervous.

Finally, she got up.

One more song, then she was up.

Mirjana Buljević, the stage manager, called her over.

I kissed her for good luck and jumped over the VIP fence into the audience.

My heart was pounding louder than the speakers.

The hosts came on stage and announced:

"How does one single year in the life of young Split singer Leila sound? We’ll find out now with a song by Ernest Pelaić, arranged by Stipica Kalogjera. Conducting the festival orchestra—Maestro Dragan Smiljan!"

This was the moment I had lived for.

It was worth every sleepless night, every ounce of effort.

Leila walked onto the stage smiling.

She had no stage fright whatsoever.

She sang flawlessly from beginning to end.

Her voice had a special charm, and the audience responded warmly.

When she finished, I was shocked by how strong the applause was.

I ran backstage, hugged her, kissed her.

"How was it?" she asked.

"Perfect," I said. "I survived."

She hugged me tightly.

There were tears of joy in her eyes.

At that moment, I knew—it was all worth it.

 

And Then—A Surprise!

We were getting ready to leave when Zdenko appeared.

He shook Leila’s hand. Then mine.

He leaned in and whispered:

"I’m so happy, you have no idea. They all doubted me for choosing Leila… 'Why her? She’s unknown, you should’ve picked a bigger name.' Now they can all shut up. It was fantastic. Bravo!"

He asked where we were headed.

"Home," I said. "We’re exhausted."

"Stay put. Don’t move until the end. That’s an order," he winked and disappeared.

 

Second Place

A few minutes later, Mirjana Buljević came running toward us.

"Ernest! Leila! Quick, backstage!"

I thought Zdenko needed something.

Instead, Zdravko Škender grinned and said:

"I won. Leila is second. Matko is third."

I couldn’t believe it.

I had never expected an award—just having my song at the festival was enough.

But now, standing backstage, waiting to go on stage for second place, I knew:

Every sleepless night, every note, every dream—was worth it.

As I stepped onto the Prokurative stage, looking into the crowd, I thought:

"Is this a dream? Will someone wake me up and say, 'Ernest, you’re late for school'?"

But no.

This was real.

And it was indescribable. ❤️