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Screech Orchestra is music, song and dance.
Screech Orchestra when asked «Is this possible?» answers «Yes, it is impossible».
Screech Orchestra believes in mistakes.
Screech Orchestra is a mistake.
Screech Orchestra is sewing machine music.
Screech Orchestra is a taboo in the mirror.
Screech Orchestra is a child without a childhood.
Screech Orchestra is a glitter melody.
Screech Orchestra is a struggle of duality against duplicity.
Screech Orchestra shoots bubbles.
Screech Orchestra dance.
Screech Orchestra recycles, creates and exemplifies
Screech Orchestra is nah, nah.
Screech Orchestra is noise pleasant and unpleasant.
Screech Orchestra follows your beat.
Screech Orchestra invites you in a chaos of screeches, screams and melodies
Screech Orchestra laughs (at you).
Screech Orchestra wants to screech all over the


Screech Orchestra, the first original project by the actress and dancer Jelena Rusjan, is an exploration of a form of theatre where the obscure forces of violence, personal responsibility and lost childhoods face the variegated aesthetics of kitch-noir. The performance draws its inspiration from a great variety of sources, from the darkness of McDonagh's Pillowman and Andersen tales, to the playful Tim Burton, folk song and uncompromising punk. The project resulted in a musical cast unable to avoid its theatrical roots. Through stories of tormented and abused children, the performers present mainly themselves on stage.

The key feature of the Screech Orchestra is a critical relation between lighter pop patterns and serious, almost weighty, content used to establish the issue of a artist’s responsibility towards their social and cultural environment, as well as to search out the most effective forms of expression

Jelena Rusjan , Ana Franjic, Barbara Krajnc, Andreja Kopač, Leja Jurišić, Neja Tomšić , Urška Vohar and Otar Savali

Texts by: Screech Orchestra and Jure Novak
Production: Gledališče Glej, Ljubljana
Coproduction: Mesto žensk, Ljubljana (SLO)


released April 16, 2010

Screech Orchestra – »girls' gang« issues its first CD

The theatrical-musical project Screech Orchestra expands its influence by issuing its first CD!
The premiere of the play Screech Orchestra, the first one directed by Jelena Rusjan, took place in September 2009 in GLEJ theatre in Ljubljana. Although a theatre based project, Screech Orchestra features unusual musical cast, hungry not only for a theatre stage, but for a concert and a club stage as well.
The play – concert made quite a splash with its brilliant performance and distinctive directing. Screech Orchestra erases the line between theatre and concert performance. It confirms its hybrid nature over and over again with its appearance in theatres, clubs, on festivals and concerts all over ex-Yugoslavia, and the next step is the American tour in autumn.
On its first CD, Screech Orchestra plays »screech music« you haven't heard so far. The actors, performers, with no formal musical education are playing diferent instruments and different objects, offering a special audio experience, with immediacy and freshness as its main trait.
It's hard to limit the Schreech Orchestra music to one genre, so the Screech Orchestra members have a couple of suggestions:
» Noir Kitsch audio adventure taking you to the other side of nightmares«
» Music with a defect playing with human... mistakes«
»Children melodies disguised into uncompromising Screech punk«
»Lounge music from hell«



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Track Name: Skrip Orkestra
Screech Orchestra is it true?
Screech Orchestra in chaos invites you
Screech Orchestra gona take
Screech Orchestra is mistake

Screech Orchestra is on her way
Screech Orchestra play night and day

Screech Orchestra finds your beat
Screech Orchestra likes to cheat

Screech Orchestra
Screech Orchestra
Screech Orchestra

Screech Orchestra have no clue
Screech Orchestra gonna brake on through
Screech Orchestra play some noise
Screech Orchestra like beastie boys

Screech Orchestra is on her way
Screech Orchestra play night and day

Screech Orchestra finds your beat
Screech Orchestra likes to cheat

Screech Orchestra
Screech Orchestra
Screech Orchestra


Škrip Orkestra

Škrip Orkestra je mogoče
Škrip Orkestra kaos hoče
Škrip Orkestra je napaka
Škrip Orkestra je mala spaka

Škrip Orkestra po celem svetu
Škrip Orkestra vsak dan v letu

Škripa skače in vrešči
Ritam svoj ves čas lovi

Škrip Orkestra
Škrip Orkestra
Škrip Orkestra

Škrip Orkestra je igranje
Škrip Orkestra je malo sranje
Škrip Orkestra opozarja
Škrip Orkestra vam ustvarja

Škrip tabujev in zrcal
Škrip mehurčkov in bodal

Škripa ugaja in ječi
In se ti na glas smeji

Škrip Orkestra
Škrip Orkestra
Škrip Orkestra
Track Name: Jabolcni clovecki

There lived a girl as merry as can be
But her father was very loathsome, you see
She made him an apple treat for memory.

Little apple men

Inside them she put to be
sharp razors you see

Little apple men

Yeah yeah yeah
(ache ache ache)
Little creatures I make!
Yeah yeah yeah,
(ache ache ache)
not one is a fake!

Ten little fingers
Ears, eyes and nose
Mouth, knees and shoulders
And ten little toes.

Razors in fingers
Ears, eyes and nose
Razors in shoulders
Mouth, knees and toes.

Daddy, keep them forever
This sweet memory of me wherever
Daddy, don't ever eat them
Not even in days of mayhem.

But father devoured
The whole of the apple-lot
Daddy, why did you eat them?

Red grin on his face
Cool as a razor
Buried in the ground daddy will lay.

Alone in her bedroom little girl rests
Night shadows whisper: sleep tight, sleep tight
Through the door enters a wicked army of men.

Little apple men, Little apple men, Little apple men

“you killed our brothers we want revenge
we’ll cut your throat and make your life end.”

Across my chest to my mouth
walks the army of men
coming as they please
I can no longer breathe.

Now the cute little dead girl lies in her deathbed.

Red grin on her face
Cool as a razor
Young, sweet, and brimming with blood.
Track Name: Ko si srecen v Hemlinu
When You're Happy in Hamelin

At the end of the world there is a place
At the end of the world there is a place
Forgotten, full of unhappy people
At the end of the world there is a place

From the houses comes a nasty smell
From the houses comes a nasty smell
Whispers are heard behind closed doors
From the houses comes a nasty smell

The damp from the river is spreading all around (The river damp is in the air?)
The damp from the river is spreading all around
Not everyone will make it through the night
The damp from the river is spreading all around

The sound of a whistle is getting near
The sound of a whistle is getting near
Blown by the master of all the children
The sound of a whistle is getting near

Laughter in the streets, not mine, not yours
Laughter in the streets, not mine, not yours
The rats rule the place tonight
Red eyes, tail dragging on the ground

The children are scared to the bone
The children are scared to the bone
Their laughter has crumbled into dust
The children are scared to the bone

At the end of the world
The girl is suffering
At the end of the world
The boy is scared
At the end of the world
Daddy's little girl
At the end of the world
Brothers in blood
At the end of the world
There is a place
Track Name: Brata

Two brothers, there once were two brothers,
the tortured one and the happy one,
one was locked up at all times,
the other got all that he wanted.
Two parents, there once were two parents
who decided,
to raise their children differently,
than most people do.
They locked one boy up,
and spoiled the other
tortured the one
loved the other.
When the loved boy was growing
he liked to write stories
about bunnies and birds and angels
all his young years.
Then suddenly through the wall
he began to hear
drilling, punching, moaning
breaking, scratching, suffering.
He asked his mother – mummy
what is it I hear through the nights
and mother said – sonny dear,
it's just dreams – don't you worry.
The stories became darker still
and weirder, stranger,
better, more concise,
that he wrote during waking nights.
But all of a sudden he decides
to go into the room where the sounds come from
keeping him awake all nights
the strange moans keep coming.
Here, the story splits into two
and it's up to you to decide,
what's true and what never happens
except in the little boys head.
According to version one all he finds
is mother and father laughing,
faking the sounds all along,
with drill and a whistle and moaning.
This story finishes years later,
when the boy, now a man, returns,
a successful writer to his old home,
and turns the stinking bedding.
He finds his brother there, o, brother of mine
rotting, dead, a body
the tender bones all cracked up,
all of his skin badly burnt.
In tiny fist does the brother clench,
the best story of all time
the writer can’t ever write something is good,
he collapses in front of his rival.
Two brothers, there once were two brothers,
the tortured one and the happy one,
one died for the other,
the other lost all he had had.
The second version is even worse,
more horrible than the first one
he catches his mother and father at work,
and the brother is only half-dead.
So that very same night, as they fall asleep,
the brother creeps into their bedroom
covers their faces with pillows
smothers them dead.
Two brothers, there still are two brothers,
but now their parents are dead,
a shovel sang songs above them
the ground closed up all around them.



(dva) Brata, bila sta dva brata,
ta mučeni in ta vesel,
je eden zaprt bil za vrata,
drug vse, kar je hotel, je imel.
Dva starša, bila sta dva starša,
ki odločila sta se,
da vzgajat je treba drugače,
kot to večina počne.
Sta enega fanta zaprla,
ta drucga razvajat sta šla
enega vse dni trpiiiinčilaaa
drucga ljubila-la-la.
Ko ljubljeni fant je odraščal
zgodbe je pisal rad
o zajčkih in ptičkih in aaaangelih
vso svojo rosno pomlad.
A sčasoma preko stene
je sliiiišaaatiii začel,
vrtanje, luknjanje, stokanje,
lomljenje, praskanje, gnev.
Vprašal je mamo – maaamiicaa,
kaj slišim to jaz vse noči,
mama je rekla – sinko zlat,
to sanjaš le, le brez skrbi.
Kljub temu so zgodbe postajale
njegove temnejše vse, čudne
močnejše vse, boljše, izpiljene
ki pisal jih je noči budne.
Lepega dne pa odpravi se
v sobo, s katere ga zvoki
preganjajo v temi vseee noči
ne dajo mu spat čudni stoki.
Tu zgodba na dvoje se razdeli
odločit se morate sami,
kaj res je in kaj se sploh ne zgodi,
razen v fantkovi glavi.
Po verziji ena tam najde le
očeta in mamo smejoča,
ki zvoke poooneeveeerjata,
z vrtalko, piščalko in stokom.
Ta zgodba zaključi se leta kasneje,
ko fantič, zdaj moški se vrne,
uspešen pisatelj v rodni svoj dom,
blazino smrdljivo obrne.
Tam brata zagleda, o bratec moj,
strohnelega, mrtvega, truplo,
drobne koščice polomljene,
vsako ped kože ocvrto.
V rokici drobni stiska brat,
zgodbo najboljšo vseh časov,
da take srečni spisat ne zna,
se zgrudi pred tem, kar je našel.
(dva) Brata, bila sta dva brata,
ta mučeni in ta vesel,
je eden umrl za drugega,
drug zgubil je vse, kar je imel.
A druga različica strašnejša je,
grozljivejša še od prve
očeta in mamo ujame na delu,
a brat je še le na pol mrtev.
Zato tisto noč, ko se spravita spat.
se v spalnico njuno brat splazi
z blazinama skrije jima obraz
z blazinama ju zadavi.
Dva brata, še vedno dva brata
le starša zdaj mrtva sta
nad njima je pela lopata
nad njima zaprla se tla.
Track Name: Deklica ki je verjela da je Jezus
A girl who believed she was Jesus

Once upon a time there lived a little girl,
Who was quite quite determined she was the second coming of the Lord Jesus Christ:
Hi, I am the Lord Jesus Christ.
She'd wear a little beard and would go around in sandals,
Walking amongst the poor and the homeless,
Loving lepers, healing drug-addicts,
sSering drunks, washing beggars.
She wanted to save everyone,
Went about blessing everything.
And so she was never home,
As there is too much woe in this world.
6 years she had,
for 6 year she believed,
for 3 days she suffered,
for 6 years and 3 days she lived.
One night, the little girl slipped out yet again,
And for two horrifying days
Her parents could find neither hide nor hair of her,
Until they received a distraught call from a priest they didn't know, saying:
Hello, I am a distraught priest. You'd better come down to church. Your daughter's here giving us a lot of shit. It was cute at first but now it's really getting irritating. AMEN.
Her parents, relieved that she was alive and well,
Sped downtown to pick her up,
But in their haste they careened into an oncoming meat truck,
Were beheaded and died.
The little girl was informed of the news,
She cried a single tear, and not a single tear more.
She was shipped of by the state to live in a forest
With some abusive foster parents,
Who hadn't informed the state that they were abusive on the form;
Who hated religion, who hated Jesus,
Who hated anybody, in fact, who didn't hate anybody,
And who, as would follow, hated the little girl.
She'd receive a beating
When she insisted on attending church of a Sunday,
For arriving late home,
For sharing her food with the hungry,
For praying,
For cheering up the ugly kids,
For wandering about looking for the lepers,
For sobering the drunks,
For washing the beggars,
And yet she always forgave them all.
One day she met a blind man begging by the roadside,
She mixed a little of her spittle
In the dust and rubbed it over his eyes to revive them,
But he was angry and reported her to the police.
When her foster parents got her back from the police station they said to her:
So you want to be just like Jesus, do you?
And she said:
Finally you fucking get it!
And they stared at her for a while.
And then it started.
They embedded in her head a crown of thorns.
Then they beat her with a cat o'nine tail till she bled.
Do you still want to be like Jesus?
And, through her tears, she said, 'Yes, I do,' and forgave them.
So they made her carry a heavy wooden cross
Around the sitting room a hundred times,
Until her legs buckled and her shins broke:
I am the Lord Jesus Christ, she kept maintaining.
All right, we'll nail you to a cross, then
Knock, knock, knock ...
Nailed to the cross she bore it all,
While her parents watched television,
And when all the good programs were over,
They sharpened a spear and they said to her:
Do you still want to be like Jesus?
No, I don't want to be like Jesus ... I fucking am Jesus!
And her parents stuck the spear in her side,
And they left her there to die, and they went to bed.
She waited till morning to forgive them,
And that she did when they woke up.
The angry parents brought a coffin made of glass:
If you are Jesus, you'll survive,
if you are Jesus, you'll rise in three days' time.
And the little girl thought about it for a while,
And she smiled to herself and whispered:
Exactly. Exactly.
In a grave made of glass the girl awaits,
Inside, there is just enough room for her and three days' worth of air.
Three days later the blind man from the police station walks by,
And being quite quite blind sees and hears
No Jesus
No girl,
No Christ,
No nothing.
Track Name: Napaka

fatal mistake
typical mistake
private mistake
certified mistake

genetic mistake
production mistake
cerebral mistake
systemic mistake

relative mistake
strategic mistake
utter mistake
mistake in judgment

cardiac mistake
linguistic mistake
serial mistake
browser mistake

everything is a mistake of situation
caused by a lack of concentration
for their own mistakes nobody cares
but for each one you make they'll make you...

the world, a mistake of civilisation
happiness, a mistake of frustration
order, a mistake of chaos
diamonds are a mistake
stars are cosmical mistakes
white, a mistake of the color spectrum
bubble, a mistake in the shampoo
bass, a mistake of the guitar

mistake number 268
mistake that I want 2 make
mistake number 149
mistake you are a part of mankind!

god is a human mistake
apple is a heavenly mistake
bread is a sweet pie mistake
water is a wine mistake
clothes are fashionable mistakes
flying, Peter Pan's mistake
Hollywood is a Bollywood mistake
righteousness, Robin Hood's mistake

mistake number 268
mistake that I want 2 make
mistake number 149
mistake you are a part of mankind!

Kamchatka is a mistake of geography
dance, a stillness mistake
music, a mistake of silence

nah nah is no mistake

logic is a cerebral mistake
cheese is a dairy mistake
life is a terminal mistake

nah nah is no mistake

everything is a mistake of situation
caused by a lack of concentration
for their own mistakes nobody cares
but for the each one you make they'll make you...

mistake number 869...
Track Name: ABCD-arijum

A is for Ana who fell down the stairs
B is for Barbara assaulted by bears
B is for Boris,trombone sucked him in.
C is for Ciril who wasted away
Č is for Črtomir thrown out of a sleigh
D is for David who choked on a peach
E is for Eva sucked dry by a leech
F is for Fric smothered under a rug
G is for Grega done in by a thug
H is for Hana who drowned in a lake
I is for Ira who took lye by mistake
J is for Jelena who was struck with an axe
K is for Klara who swallowed some tacks
L is for Leja who was swept out to sea
M is for Maja who died of ennui
N is for Neja run through with an awl
O is for Oskar trampled flat in a brawl
P is for Pavle who sank in a mire
R is for Rok consumed by a fire
S is for Simona who perished of fits
Š is for Špela who flew into bits
T is for Tito who slipped down a drain
U is for Urška squashed under a train
V is for Vanja embedded in ice
Z is for Zrinka devoured by mice
Ž is for Žak who drank too much gin
Thus ends the alphabet – the quire is done in.
Thus ends the alphabet – the little child is dead.
Track Name: Poustr

In these flames I am reminded
of a story long ago,
when I was keeping to a quota
taking them to the othe side.
It all starts at the beginning
when I find a person,
that is crying, shivering
with a noose around their neck
a sharp razor in their hands
their heads stuck in gas ovens
awaiting lighting with a rod
or staring into an abyss.
In these flames I am reminded
of stories of a thousand men
only pain and only suffering
nothing merry, only worry.
(All the time.)
So I go back to the past
find them all years before
as girls and boys without any worries,
happy souls still with no borders.
I am soft so I can hug them
a pillow, so that they may lay
their heads into my soft lap
a soft hand through their hair.
I am a pillow, top to bottom
two pillows for my hands
pillow ears and pillow innards
pillow eyes and pillow teeth.
Take yourselves out of this world
do it, children, do it,
it’s time to kill yourselves
so that you don’t come to harm.
The pillowman will help you with it,
pillowman, soft just for you,
we’ll find a way to do it together
so we do it properly.
But what of parents, asks the child.
won’t they be so very sad?
It’ll look like an accident,
don’t you children worry.
There’s a pond with ice so thin
ther a pillbox with no lid,
there a busy two lane street,
with an ice-cream stall accross.
Here’s a bag that clenches tightly
round your head so you can’t breathe,
hear a plug and fork to stick in,
here a bridge that wobbles so.
But I did not always make it
I recall a little girl
who said: pillow, I’m too happy
for this kind of foolery.
But the next night there’s a rapping
at her door – knock knock knock
she says: pillow, let it go,
I’ll not change my mind just so.
‘Twas no pillow, ‘twas a man,
who kept coming years and years
and the girl grows up a woman,
takes her own life at her hand.
In these flames I am reminded
of this and thousands other tales
my own tale I last remember,
pillowman, the comforter.
I sat down here at the brook,
when along comes little pillow
he just looked me over quick
and was fast to find a cure.
He spilled gas on his soft body
lit a match and said to me
in these flames he softly whispere
soon you’ll sleep quite easily.
When he disappears in these flames
little pillowman – or me
smiles and grins so very happy
cause he rid me of my worries.
(Death, sweet death.)
But then I hear round me, the horror
thousands and more thousands souls,
screaming, suffering and groaning,
live again from ‘neath the earth.
Since I died as little pillow
I never was the pillowman
killed no children, ended no lives
all of them remained alive.
And these lives, we know already
were just clumps of misery
only suffering, sadness, worry
they were better of – dead.
(Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead)



V plamenih se spominjam
davne zgodbe, vrste let,
ko izpolnjeval sem kvoto
spravljaj jih na drugi svet.
Vse prične se na pričetku
ko poiščem tistega,
ki se joče, ki trepeče
zanko krog vratu ima
ostro britev v roki stiska
glavo v šporhet si tišči
s štango k nebu čaka bliska
ali v prepad strmi.
V plamenih se spominjam
zgodb teh tisočev ljudi
le bolest in le trpljenje
nič veselja, le skrbi.
(Na obroke.)
Pa se vrnem v preteklost
jih poiščem leta prej,
kor brezskrbne fantke, punčke,
srečne duše še, brez mej.
Spravite se s tega sveta,
dajte deca, dajte se,
čas se je ugonobiti
da ne pride vam gorje.
Pouštr sem od nog do glave
pouštra dva sta roki dve
s pouštrov ušesa, s pouštrov čreva
pouštri za oči, zobe.

Mehek sem, da jih objamem,
pouštr, da mi polože
glavo v naročje mehko
mehka roka skoz lase.
Pouštr vam bo tu pomagal,
pouštr le za vas mehak,
skupaj bomo ugotovili,
kako se, da ne bo napak.
Kaj pa starši, vpraša otrok,
mar ne bodo žalostni?
Zgledalo bo kot nesreča,
nej te to nič ne skrbi.
Tam je ribnik s tankim ledom,
tamle škatlica tablet,
tamle cesta, kjer drvijo,
preko nje pa sladoled.
Tu je vrečka, ki oprime
glave se nadvse tesno,
tu vtikač in tu pletilki,
tale brv drži slabo.
Vedno mi pa ni uspelo,
spomnem se dekletca, ki
mi je rekla: srečna pouštr
sem preveč za te reči.
A že drugo noč potrka
ji na vrata – tok tok tok
reče: pouštr, raje pusti
spet odšel boš praznih rok.
Ni bil pouštr, bil je moški,
ki je hodil vrsto let
in dekletce v punco zrase,
si hiti življenje vzet.
V plamenih se spominjam
te in tisočero zgodb
svoje se nazadnje spomnim,
poušter jaz, blažilec usod.
Tu na breg sem se usedel,
kar prišel je pouštrček
enkrat me je le pogledal
in je hitro našel lek.
Se polil je s kerozinom,
in vžigalico prižgal
v plamenih zdaj presrečen
pravi, sladko boš zaspal.
Ko izginja v plamenih
pouštrček – jaz sam – gori
vidim: srečen se nasmiha
ker me rešil je skrbi.
(Smrt, sladka smrt.)
A tedaj zaslišim – strašno
vse krog mene tisoč duš,
ki kričijo in trpijo,
znova žive izpod ruš.
Ker kot pouštrček sem umrl
pouštr nisem nikdar bil
nič otrok ne ugonobil
vsak od njih ostal je živ.
Ta življenja pa že vemo
so le skupki bolečin
le trpljenja, žalost, beda,
bolje jim bilo je – hin.
(Mrtvim. Mrtvim. Mrtvim. Mrtvim. Mrtvim. Mrtvim. Mrtvim. Mrtvim.)