Momo Kapor - The Wonder Called Guča: Who could have even thought that the call of the trumpet would be able to gather as much as six hundred thousand people and that a field of tents will emerge on the vacant meadows of Guča, like in some war march? And everybody has forgotten, there is nobody to even mention it, that the entire story started forty nine years ago, in 1960, by a poet, Branko V. Radičević, with the nickname Mačista, whose rhymes and poems made Serbia famous, and particularly his hometown Čačak....
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Branko Radičević - The Trumpet Thundered : Everything seems to be changing. The Festival stays the same. Like the elements. Earth. Air. Water. Roast meat. Bread and bacon. Garlic. Dance leader and the very last dancer. The first and the last one in the folk round-dance. The Festival is a wonder. And it is a wonder of wonders. One ought to have marched the streets of Guča thirty five years ago. In the "anterija" (embroidered wide-sleeve shirt). With šajkača on the head. In the presence of authorities. In the company of the trumpeters....
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Matija Bećković - Shake it, Maple : The trumpet has been in use by people and angels since ever, and never and nowhere without good reason. Here, in Guča, the trumpeters are among the first ones to take into their hands the trumpets, and they do so with one reason more.
They say that the first trumpet descended to Guča looking for a place from where it could be heard the farthest. All her sisters followed her in flocks and jointly thundered into the chest of Serbia.
The call of the trumpet made all that sounds and tunes in, all the quivers and joining quivers on that loud side with which all the sides are linked, all the languages, the skies and the earth, to start roaring, storming and weeping...
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Zoran Hristić - The Mark of Dragačevo: When I was kindly asked to write something about Dragačevo, that is about the Trumpeters Festival (but is this not one and the same!), this caught me by surprise, because this would be like somebody would be asking me to write a love letter! However, there is some logic to it. Dragačevo, Guča, Festival, song and rhythm – these are old loves of mine. When one writes of love, one chooses words which shall be sufficiently nice to make forget the everyday life, to fall into something which resembles sleep, and the word "but" is avoided, because nothing may spoil the joy of the spirit of the festival. By nature, human beings go back to what they love... One in love with the Festival is lucky to be able to have it every year, lucky to be hardly waiting for it to come each year, and to be able to forget – surrounded by the celebration and the cannonade of sounds - that he is one year older....
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