Blues is my passion. Blues coming from the speakers while I’m writing songs. Blues behind the wheel while driving along the Adriatic coast, Blues in central Istria at a table with ham, cheese, red wine, Blues in the deserts of California, the pain of New Orleans, the midnight lullaby of John Lee Hooker. I grew up on guitar solos, moderate bass sounds, heartbreaking saxophone. Muddy Waters, Albert King, Robert Johnson, B. B. King, Eric Clapton, Buddy Guy, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Taj Mahal… they were my idols. Because of them my interest awoke, and my love for rock music grew. Blues masters are the ones I owe my passion to for meeting the Doors, Lou Reed, The Grateful Dead, Pink Floyd, the Stones, Nick Cave, U2, Tom Waits ... live blues in the bars of the French Quarter, the original black voices, genes of slaves, the cry for freedom, the escape through the swamps of Louisiana... all that I felt in the city of black music, the cradle of jazz and blues, the imperishable New Orleans of cool rhythms.

I then started towards the West coast, drove though deserts, listened to a blues radio station and dashed through the immense dusty areas into the heart of nowhere on the fuel called blues. On the shores of the ocean, in the megalopolis of Los Angeles, I lived on and from the blues, beer, steaks. One morning I sat on a plane and landed in New York, and there, in Manhattan, I screamed out my blues on the fiftieth floors of inaccessible peaks, at night I went to wicked and seedy nightclubs where blues was slowly poured out until dawn when I went along the avenues of the Morning Blues, with tired steps.

But when I briefly settled down in the South of Chicago, where half a century ago the King of the Blues, Muddy Waters, ruled in the darkness of the underworld and when blues belonged only to the oppressed, I realized that electric blues, to which I still gladly listen to under the slopes of Mount Učka, in my home beyond the world, where I listen to the Midnight Blues in the silence of my mind....

 

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