Pusti me pusti

A battered, electric urgency drives this track from its first chord — guitars that jab and recede like an argument mid-sentence, a rhythm section that pushes rather than grooves. Čolić's voice arrives already unraveling, that distinctive husky rasp stretched thin by something close to desperation. The song occupies the raw emotional territory between pride and collapse, a man standing at a threshold demanding release while simultaneously betraying how much that release would hurt him. The production carries the unmistakable warmth of Yugoslav rock from its prime years — analog warmth, live room presence, no polish to soften the edges. It belongs to late evenings in smoke-filled kafanas, to people who have loved badly and know it. The chorus opens like a door being kicked rather than opened, and Čolić leans into each repetition with slightly more abandon, as if the act of singing it is the act of letting go. This is ex-Yugoslav rock at its most theatrically honest — big feelings delivered without irony, without distance.