Kalle return to Prague after three years to perform at Palác Akropolis in a concert that aspires to be more than just another stop on the tour map. We see the Prague comeback of one of the most distinctive Czech alternative bands of the past decade as an exceptional event — not to be missed by anyone who values music born out of inner necessity rather than instant effect. For this special evening, they have invited the project BabylonEly as their guest.

Kalle, the songwriting duo of Veronika Zemanová and David Zeman, have long been among the most respected acts on the Czech scene. Their music draws from slowcore, trip hop and alternative pop, yet never confines itself to genre boundaries. Electronic textures, darker rock undertones and minimalist dynamics create a space where every emotion has time to unfold. Their songs carry a sense of patience, focus and the ability to let silence speak as powerfully as sound.

From their debut Live from the Room (2014), through Saffron Hills (2017), to their latest album Under The Black Moss (2022), Kalle have continued to evolve without losing their distinctive voice. The third record, awarded both the Anděl and Apollo prizes, confirms their ability to transform darker moods into music that feels less heavy than cathartic. It is music that does not demand attention, yet lingers beneath the skin.

Kalle’s concerts are not exhibitions, but concentrated encounters. The relationship between Veronika and David — both human and musical — forms the foundation of their strength. Live, their songs unfold with quiet yet profound intensity, creating a space where the listener can pause and breathe.

BabylonEly

I was born in 1985. At three, the devil haunted me at night — and I was baptized. From six to fourteen, I grew up in a rectory, singing hymns and sleeping. In a church, like by the sea. At eight, I wanted to be Michael Jackson. At nine, Saint Francis — with stigmata, speaking to animals and crying with joy. At ten, I wanted to be Whitney Houston. With a wig and makeup, cowboys and Indians at the children’s ball looked at me strangely. I didn’t understand why. At twelve, I crashed and drifted away. At fourteen, I met the guitar, tried to cry like Kurt Cobain, sing like Lindsay Cooper and curse like Arthur Rimbaud. And that’s it. That’s me. A confusion of senses and speech. Babylon Ely.