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Let's pivot for a second to another little "syndrome" I've noticed...
Back when I first dove headfirst into the music scene and started collecting 7" singles during the 80s, there was one thing I absolutely loved about them. It was the fact that the B-sides almost always featured a "clean" instrumental version of the A-side track.
Because they had more breathing room due to their length, 12" singles didn't really face those same constraints. Instead of playing it safe with an instrumental, they usually opted for two or three different remixes of the lead single.
The genres that stuck most faithfully to that old-school tradition were disco and, specifically, the whole Italo-disco movement.
I’ve stumbled upon so many Italo-disco records over the years that follow this exact pattern—just a solid, extended instrumental sitting right there on the flip side.
Now, there’s one group that decided to have a bit of fun by subverting that very tradition, and that's New Order, particularly with this release:
New Order - Thieves Like Us (1984) (12") (Factory)
Thieves Like Us (6:36) (A)
...while the B-side gives you the track Lonesome Tonight.
But here's the kicker: if you actually want that brilliant, "pure" instrumental of the title track, you can't find it there. You actually have to hunt down a completely different maxi-single, specifically this one (which was a bit of a rarity, released mostly in places like Europe or Japan):
New Order - Murder (1984) (12") (Factory)
Thieves Like Us (Instrumental) (6:57) (B)
The A-side on that one is actually the older instrumental for Murder from back in the winter of '82.
I wouldn't bother pointing out such a niche detail if it weren't for the fact that this might be their absolute finest work, making this little quirk a true collector's curiosity.
Listening to Art of Noise's "Moments in Love" feels like sitting in a sun-drenched cafe in San Francisco on a quiet Sunday morning. It’s that specific kind of atmospheric magic. You know the feeling? It’s much like watching the fog roll over the Golden Gate Bridge—slow, deliberate, and completely immersive. The track doesn't rush you. It doesn't demand your attention with loud, jarring shifts. Instead, it unfolds like a well-paced novel. It’s rhythmic, yet incredibly fluid. I often find myself thinking about how some music tries too hard to be "important," whereas this just *is*. It’s pure texture. It reminds me of those perfectly timed transitions in a classic Hollywood film where the dialogue stops and you just let the mood breathe. Truly a masterclass in sonic atmosphere.
Twenty-seven Bauhaus tracks—Bela Lugosi's Dead. It’s funny how certain sounds just stick to you like wet paint on a summer afternoon. You listen to it and suddenly everything feels a bit more cinematic, doesn't it? Like walking through downtown Chicago at midnight when the streetlights are humming. Just pure atmosphere.
The Cocteau Twins really hit a different kind of frequency with "Aikea-Guinea." It’s one of those tracks that feels less like a song and more like a sudden shift in weather. One minute you’re sitting in a quiet living room in Chicago, and the next, you’ve been swept up into this shimmering, ethereal vortex. It reminds me of watching a summer thunderstorm roll across the Midwest—that heavy, electric tension in the air right before the clouds break. You can’t quite pin down the lyrics, but honestly, why would you want to? It’s like trying to grab handfuls of fog. The melody does all the heavy lifting. It’s layered, swirling, and deeply hypnotic. If you haven't sat down with a good pair of headphones and just let this track wash over you, you're missing out on a genuine sonic experience. Pure magic.
I was listening to "A Forest" by The Cure earlier today, and man, it just hits different when you really sit with it. It’s like walking through a dense stretch of woods in the Pacific Northwest—just that thick, heavy atmosphere where everything feels slightly out of reach. Robert Smith has this way of layering those melodies that makes you feel both completely isolated and strangely comforted at the same time. It reminds me of those long, quiet drives through the mountains in Oregon where the fog rolls in so thick you can barely see the hood of your car. You're just drifting, lost in the rhythm. It's a masterpiece of mood.
I was listening to "The Host of Seraphim" by Dead Can Dance earlier today, and man, it just hits different. It’s one of those tracks that feels less like music and more like an actual experience—sort of like standing in the middle of the Grand Canyon at sunrise when everything is silent except for the wind. It’s heavy, sure, but there’s this incredible lightness to it too. It reminds me of how some great American cinema works; you know, those slow-burn movies where the atmosphere does all the heavy lifting before a single word is even spoken. You don't need a massive Hollywood explosion to feel something deep in your gut. Sometimes, a single haunting melody is enough to shake you up. Just a beautiful, overwhelming wave of sound.
There’s just something about "Enjoy the Silence" by Depeche Mode that hits different every single time. It’s like when you finally step out of a chaotic Midtown Manhattan subway station and hit the sidewalk—that sudden, heavy blanket of quiet after all that screeching metal and shouting. It’s pure relief. The song captures that specific feeling perfectly. Sometimes, words are just clutter. They’re like unnecessary extra baggage on a flight from LA to New York; you think you need them, but once they're gone, you feel so much lighter. There’s a profound strength in just being still and letting the silence do the talking. It’s not about emptiness; it’s about presence. Just me, the melody, and the peace. Total bliss.
There’s something about listening to "The End" by The Doors that feels like watching a slow-motion thunderstorm roll over the Midwest. It’s heavy, sure, but it’s got this rhythmic, hypnotic pulse that just pulls you in. You start off thinking it’s just another song, but then Jim Morrison’s vocals begin to unravel, and suddenly you’re miles away from where you started. It’s less like a track on an album and more like a cinematic experience—kind of like sitting in a dark theater in Chicago, watching a noir film unfold while the rain hits the windowpane. It’s messy, it’s beautiful, and it’s unapologetically intense. Just pure, unadulterated soul.
Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s "Two Tribes" is such a fascinating piece of pop history. It’s like watching a high-stakes political thriller play out through a synthesizer. You know that feeling when you’re watching a heavy-hitting documentary on the History Channel about the Cold War? That’s the energy here. It isn't just a song; it’s a sonic representation of the tension between two massive superpowers standing on a knife's edge. The production is incredibly dense. It feels less like a standard radio hit and more like a carefully constructed wall of sound—think of it like a massive, multi-layered orchestral arrangement, but built entirely from electronic components. It captures that specific, jittery anxiety we all felt during those decades of geopolitical standoff. It’s punchy, it’s aggressive, and yet it remains strangely infectious. It’s a perfect example of how art can take a heavy, complex subject like global conflict and turn it into something that makes you want to move while simultaneously making you think.
Living in NYC is quite the whirlwind, isn't it? It’s like being caught in a permanent slipstream of energy. One minute you’re grabbing a quick coffee at a local Starbucks, and the next, you’re navigating the sheer, beautiful chaos of the subway during rush hour. It’s intense, sure, but there's a certain rhythm to it that you just can't find anywhere else. It reminds me of a jazz solo—unpredictable, sometimes loud, but ultimately works because everyone is playing from the same sheet music. You have to embrace the hustle if you want to keep up.
There’s just something about Joy Division’s "Love Will Never Tear Us Apart" that hits differently. It’s one of those tracks that feels like a heavy fog rolling over a quiet street in Chicago at three in the morning—thick, moody, and impossible to ignore. You start listening to those driving drums and that melodic bassline, and suddenly you aren't just hearing music; you're feeling a whole era. It’s got this incredible tension, like a coiled spring, balancing on the edge of total heartbreak and pure, raw energy. Even when the lyrics lean into the darker side of things, there’s an underlying resilience there. It’s a masterpiece of atmosphere. Truly timeless stuff.
There’s just something about Kraftwerk’s "Autobahn" that hits differently. It’s more than just a song; it feels like a rhythmic meditation on the open road. Think about those long, late-night hauls through the Midwest—just you, the white lines, and the hum of the engine. That track captures that exact trance-like state perfectly. It’s precise, steady, and honestly, pretty brilliant.
19 The Light - Contrasting Strangers
There’s something about Manic Street Preachers that just hits different when you’re driving down a long stretch of highway at night. "Motorcycle Emptiness" is one of those tracks that feels like a sudden burst of adrenaline followed by a heavy, contemplative comedown. It’s high-octane, yet deeply introspective. It reminds me of that feeling when you're cruising through the outskirts of Chicago, the city lights fading in the rearview mirror, and you realize how small everything actually is. Just pure, raw energy wrapped in a bit of existential dread. Truly a masterpiece.
There’s just something about Massively Attack’s "Protection" that hits different. It’s like walking through a heavy fog in downtown Chicago where everything feels muffled and distant, yet you feel completely safe within your own bubble. It’s rhythmic, it’s steady, and it builds this incredible atmosphere. Honestly, I could listen to that trip-hop beat on loop while driving down the I-95 and never get tired of it. It’s pure sonic comfort food.
My Bloody Valentine’s "To Here Knows When" is just... wow. It’s like being wrapped in a warm, velvet blanket that’s also somehow vibrating at a frequency that rattles your teeth. You know that feeling when you’re driving down a highway in the middle of nowhere, maybe somewhere like Nebraska, and the stars feel like they’re pressing right up against your windshield? That’s this track. It’s all layers upon layers. It isn't just music; it's an atmosphere. It reminds me of how a heavy summer thunderstorm rolls over the Midwest—that thick, electric tension in the air right before the clouds finally break. One minute everything is quiet and tense, and the next, you’re just swallowed by the sound. Kevin Shields has this way of making guitars sound less like instruments and more like living, breathing organisms. They swell and recede like the tide. It’s beautiful, really. Just pure, sonic bliss.
There’s something about that opening beat. You know the one. It hits you right in the chest before the melody even starts to crawl out of the shadows. It’s like when you first step out of a taxi in downtown Chicago on a freezing January morning—that sudden, rhythmic jolt that tells you exactly what kind of day you're in for. "Blue Monday" isn't just a track; it's an atmosphere. It manages to feel both incredibly cold and strangely inviting at the same time. I always think of it like a perfectly engineered piece of machinery, maybe something you'd see rolling off an assembly line in Detroit. Everything is precise, everything is intentional, yet there's this soulful, pulsing energy running through the gears that makes it feel alive. It’s structured, yes, but it breathes. Just pure, rhythmic perfection.
There’s just something about "Comfortably Numb" that hits different. It’s like when you’re driving down a long stretch of highway through the Midwest at 2:00 AM—just you, the headlights, and that heavy, hypnotic hum of the road. You know that feeling? Where the world starts to blur at the edges and everything feels distant, almost dreamlike? That’s exactly where this track lives. The way the song builds is masterful. It isn't just music; it's an atmosphere. It reminds me of those moments when life gets too loud, too chaotic, and you just need to pull the plug for a second. It’s that mental retreat we all crave sometimes. And then, there’s the solo. Good grief, that solo. It’s like a sudden burst of lightning in a dark room. It’s visceral, soaring, and honestly, it feels like it’s pulling you right out of your own skin. It’s pure, unadulterated sonic storytelling. Truly a masterpiece.
Pink Floyd’s "High Hopes" is a masterclass. It’s like watching a slow-motion sunset over the Grand Canyon—you know exactly where it's headed, but you can't look away because the colors just keep shifting. It hits that specific, bittersweet note of looking back at everything you thought you were going to be versus what actually happened. It reminds me of those old family reunions in Ohio where everyone talks about their big dreams from twenty years ago, only to realize we're all just happy if the grill is working and the beer is cold. It's beautiful, melancholy, and absolutely essential.
Listening to *Blackwater* by Rain Tree Crow from back in '91. It’s such a trip. You know how some albums just feel like they were plucked out of thin air? This one does. It’s got that specific, ethereal weight to it—like walking through a heavy fog in the Pacific Northwest where everything feels quiet, but you can tell there's a lot of energy humming underneath the surface. It reminds me of those old, high-end hi-fi setups you used to see in boutique audio shops in Seattle. Everything was precise, nothing was wasted, and every note had its own breathing room. It’s a masterclass in texture. Sometimes, you don't need a wall of sound when a single, perfectly placed melody can hit you harder than a freight train. Truly special stuff.
Radiohead - Paranoid Android
You can't talk about legendary songwriting without mentioning Simon & Garfunkel. Specifically, "Bridge Over Troubled Water." It’s more than just a song; it’s an anthem for anyone who’s ever felt like they were drowning in life's chaos. Think of it like that one reliable friend who shows up at 3:00 AM with a warm meal and zero judgment when everything else is falling apart. It’s pure, unadulterated comfort. Just beautiful stuff.
I was listening to "Emma" by The Sisters of Mercy earlier today—that classic track from *22*—and it just got me thinking about how certain songs act like a time machine. You know what I mean? One chord progression hits, and suddenly you’re twenty years younger, standing on a street corner in Chicago, feeling like the world is both massive and incredibly small at the same time. It’s funny how music works. It isn't just sound; it’s an anchor. Like how a perfectly brewed cup of coffee from a local diner can instantly ground you after a chaotic week. That song does that for my brain. It’s dark, sure, but there’s a rhythmic steady pulse to it that feels almost comforting, like a heartbeat in a quiet room. It’s a bit like driving down a long stretch of highway through the Midwest at night—just you, the headlights, and a melody that seems to understand exactly where you're headed.
I was listening to "Primal" by Slowdive earlier today, and man, it just hits different. It’s one of those tracks that feels like floating through a neon haze in downtown Chicago at three in the morning. You know that feeling? When the city lights blur together and everything just feels... weightless? That’s this song for me. It’s got this incredible, swirling texture—sort of like watching cream dissolve into a dark cup of coffee. Just slow, beautiful movement. I find myself getting lost in the layers. Sometimes I start thinking about how music can basically rewire your brain for a few minutes, and then suddenly, I'm halfway through the track wondering where the time went. Pure bliss.
The Smiths' "How Soon Is Now?" is a masterpiece. It’s like walking into a neon-lit diner at 3:00 AM in Chicago—everything feels a little surreal, a little lonely, but strangely beautiful. That tremolo guitar effect isn't just music; it's an atmosphere. It pulls you in, much like how a heavy fog rolls off Lake Michigan, blurring the lines between what's real and what's just in your head. It's rhythmic, it's haunting, and it stays with you long after the track ends. Pure magic.
There’s something about Soft Cell that just hits differently. I was listening to "Sex Dwarf" earlier today—you know, that track from *Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret*—and it got me thinking about how much certain sounds can anchor you to a specific era. It’s punchy. It’s rhythmic. It doesn't waste your time. It reminds me of those old synth-pop tracks you'd hear playing through a blown speaker at a dive bar in Chicago back in the day. You aren't looking for perfection there; you're looking for a vibe. And this song? It delivers. It’s like a perfectly brewed cup of black coffee on a rainy Tuesday morning in Seattle. Simple, dark, and exactly what you need to get moving. Just pure, unadulterated energy.
There’s something about Velvet Underground's "Venus in Furs" that just hits different. It’s not exactly a song you put on while flipping burgers at a backyard BBQ, is it? No, this is much more atmospheric. It feels like a slow burn. Think of it like watching a heavy fog roll over the San Francisco Bay—it starts quiet, almost subtle, but then it settles in and completely changes the landscape. The way Lou Reed builds that tension... it reminds me of a slow-motion scene from an old noir film set in Chicago. You know the type. Dim lighting, long shadows, and a sense that something intense is brewing just out of sight. It doesn't rush you. It takes its time, much like a well-aged bourbon. You have to sit with it. You have to let those repetitive, hypnotic rhythms sink into your bones before you really start to feel the weight of the track. It's dark, sure, but there's a certain beauty in that darkness if you're willing to look for it. Just a masterpiece of mood.
Thirteen tracks by Ultravox performed live in Vienna.
Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" is a masterclass in musical storytelling. It’s like a beautifully structured epic novel compressed into six minutes of pure sonic magic. You start with that delicate piano work—so gentle, almost hesitant—and then suddenly, you're thrown into a full-blown operatic fever dream. It’s got everything: the heartbreak, the chaos, the sudden shifts in tempo that feel like a roller coaster dropping mid-air. I always tell people, listening to this track is less like hearing a song and more like experiencing a theatrical performance in your own living room. It defies every rule of radio playability, yet it remains an absolute titan of the genre. Just brilliant.
7. Queen - Innuendo You know, I was spinning some vinyl the other day—nothing beats that warm, analog crackle, right?—and "Innuendo" just hit me differently. It’s such a layered piece of work. It reminds me a bit of a complex piece of architecture you might see in Chicago; there's all this heavy, structural foundation, but then you look up and see these intricate, almost delicate flourishes that catch the light. The song itself? It's masterful. It carries this sense of mystery and tension that stays with you long after the final note fades. It’s like walking through a foggy morning in Seattle; there’s a certain moodiness, a feeling that something significant is happening just out of sight. Freddie Mercury’s vocals are, as always, nothing short of legendary. He navigates those melodies with such grace, much like a seasoned conductor leading a symphony at Carnegie Hall. It’s thoughtful, it’s bold, and honestly, it’s just pure magic. A true standout.
I was listening to Xymox’s "Obsession" earlier today, and man, it just hits different. It’s got that moody, driving energy that stays with you. It reminds me a bit of those late-night drives through Chicago when the city lights are blurring past and everything feels a little more intense than usual. Some songs just capture a specific headspace perfectly, you know? This one definitely does.
Here’s a little nugget of trivia for all you fans of American cinema...
Captain Mikula Mali - In Memoriam
I opened up the local paper this morning, and one tiny little article immediately grabbed my attention:
"Farewell, Captain Mikula Mali!" — Who? How? — I’m reading:
A tragic note for the community: just the day before yesterday, 77-year-old Frane Tomaš passed away at his home in Jesenice due to heart complications.
Ever wonder whose actual life inspired that legendary teen series and movie from the eighties? It’s one of those classic "based on a true story" vibes that really sticks with you.
Regarding "Captain Mikula Mali"—I’m not going to rewrite the entire article, but I would just add one tiny correction: that it was actually filmed first.
The movie came out back in the late '70s, and it wasn't until much later that they actually turned it into a series.
So, why am I even bothering to write this to you all? You might think this isn't exactly breaking news for the blogosphere.
It might not carry much weight in the massive world of macro-blogging, but for my own little micro-blogging universe? It matters a whole lot.
So, right at the very beginning of my blogging journey—let me double-check that math... yeah, exactly 40 days ago—I started "In the Mess."
I just posted a new entry in my Block—a blog post about "Captain Mikula Mali." It’s a look at the film itself, mixed with some of my own personal memories from back in the day.
I was thinking about how to present this film. My plan was to release it on Saint Nicholas Day, since Nikola and Mikula are one and the same.
I finally did it! I posted those ocean shots dedicated to sailors navigating distant waters, and I included my Sailor right there with them.
I don't feel any regret about it.
Honestly, I’ve been sitting on this entire time—keeping this post tucked away, even those scanned shots of the VHS cover—just waiting for the perfect moment to finally hit publish.
Now is the moment!
I didn't realize—or maybe I just don't remember anymore—that the movie was actually based on the stories of a real-life hero, Fran Tomaš. (Hmm? That surname sounds familiar. I know exactly who to ask if I want to dig a little deeper into that man's history.)
Let this post serve as an In Memoriam—not just for him, but for all the young actors who shared the screen in that film.
Tonći vidan, a sailor from a coastal town like San Diego, played the role of Captain Mikula Mali. Sadly, he passed away in a car accident more than twenty years ago.
Joško Pažanin, a guy from Kaštel and a school friend of my cousin—who played the role of little Ličanin cika—passed away in a motorcycle accident.
That was back on Kaštel street, nearly 25 years ago.
So many people who were truly connected to the story of Captain Mikula Mali have moved on.
Let’s make this for all of them.
Back in the day, there was this lovely tradition in our elementary schools. They used to take us kids off to the movie theater to watch films centered around revolutionary themes. Of course, they’d mix those in with all sorts of other great children's movies too—stuff like *Vuk the Hermit*, *Train in the Snow*, *Salaš u Malom Ritu*, *Družba prati kvržica*, and *Captain Mikula Mali*. It was a wonderful way to introduce us to storytelling.
Back in the mid-to-late 70s, there was this movie called Captain Mikula Mali. As soon as it hit the big screen at our local theater, "First Fighter"—which was actually located right at the base of that huge cement plant—everyone was talking about it. Our elementary school, Martin Boban, was named after that legendary local hero who fought against the fascists, and we were all buzzing. I remember the teachers gathered every single grade together. We marched out in pairs, with everyone holding hands like, "Stay close, kids!" I think I was in sixth grade at the time, though maybe it was seventh? I can't quite pin it down.
We packed that hall to the rafters. People were shuffling around, shoulder to shoulder, shouting over one another and bickering about who got to sit next to whom. Even the wooden chairs were groaning under the weight of it all. Then, suddenly, the lights went down. Total silence settled in... just a few stray whispers here and there, a little giggle over there... "Pssst!" And just like that, the movie started.
The hall was absolutely buzzing, filled with the massive sights and sounds of the big screen. We were right there in the thick of it, following the journey of Mikula Mali—you know, little Mikula (honestly, seeing those kids play him reminds me of when I used to hang out by the old factory worker housing back in the day, just playing around near the local industrial plants). We followed Komušina, the legendary Mikula the Elder, brave partisan Andre, and even that Allied aviator... It was quite the ride.
We really stuck together back then. We were constantly outrunning the Germans, diving for cover, sprinting through open fields, and hiding aviators from sight. We even helped rescue Grandpa—he was played by that incredible Mexican actor, Petre Prličko—all while navigating the waters in our small fishing boats.
They’d swing from ropes like acrobats, pulling all sorts of pranks on the Occupiers and their henchmen just to keep them on their toes. It was constant mischief.
The voices of our heroes echoed through the hall: "Let's go, guys! We have to save the pilot! We have to save Grandpa!"
Good heavens! Heavens above! Like a bolt from the blue! He’s the real deal, truly one of a kind... and he's doing just fine. You know how it is—he's my boy, through and through!
We were all moved to tears when that bullet finally hit Grandpa. He was busy playing decoys for the Americans just so our little tugboat, the "Good Father," could slip away from the coast under the cover of darkness. With Captain Mikula Mali barking orders, we managed to make a run for it toward Vis!
Suddenly, the whole screen just explodes with relief—pure salvation! My goodness, my heart is pounding so hard I feel like it might jump right out of my chest and dive straight into the monitor!
There they are, arriving at the island! My beautiful island sanctuary!
From a ship pulling out of the harbor, they call out: "Name of the vessel!"
And Captain Mikula Mali answers: "The good father—from Podgora!—Captain Mikula Mali!"
And they actually pulled it off, bringing the wounded and the refugees to this free island—an unconquerable fortress of the sea!
Let people say whatever they want, but I wouldn't trade this tiny fragment of my memory for anything in the world!
POST SCRIPTUM: An excerpt from today's article in the "Daily News":
"Even though there was war and it was easy to lose your head, for me, being a kid, games and fun were always front and center. All those battles and the strafing runs from planes we had to duck from... they felt as dangerous as smoking a cigarette. We’d dodge enemy ships by hugging the coastline, and they wouldn't dare come too close because they knew the resistance fighters were lurking there. But the planes? Those were the worst. There was nowhere to hide.
My father passed away in 1943 near the coast of the islands when the enemy attacked us at sea. My brother was still a toddler then; I dove for cover, but my father and the engineer on the boat were caught in the gunfire. Both were lost. I ended up with my five-year-old brother, and after our battered boat drifted toward the outer islands, I trekked across the terrain to get to the other side. That's where the resistance found us and brought us safely to the island." — This is what Frane Tomaš shared during an interview with reporters two years ago.
Rest in peace, Captain Frane.
Post published 01/02/2008 at 12:08 PM.
Transferred from a blog.
I’m completely on board with your line of reasoning, Keith Rodriguez27, and I really think that should be taken into account.
The same goes for my take on this—if someone uses "USA" in the title, it absolutely has to be strictly confined to a specific era. It only makes sense to define that window as 1918 through 1991, right?😁
Certain parameters had to be established, and in my opinion, these are exactly the ones we need.
Otherwise, you run into the theoretical risk of someone voting for something from, say, North Mexico that just dropped a few weeks ago (and they find it so legendary it immediately jumps into an all-time top five), or something from Canada that isn't even out yet but which this particular person, by sheer coincidence, has already heard and decided is a total masterpiece—and we're back to the same old story 🤣.
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