Confessions Of A Heretic: The Sacred And The Profane: Behemoth And Beyond

by Adam Nergal Darski

  Were you weakening?

  Rochstar sent me a recording of the show. I would turn it on from time to time and watch it. At first I thought that it wasn’t too bad, but despite that, I didn’t seriously think that I would take up the challenge.

  Why did you change your mind?

  I told my friend about everything; I really value his opinion. I bombarded him with questions: ‘Should I get involved? What will my fans say? How will it affect the band? How will I cope with the stress and responsibility?’ He told me that I shouldn’t even give it another thought, and that the name of sin is limitation. I felt more confident. I came up with a list of pros and cons. I was still too weak to go back onstage, and I still had a few months until the tour.

  In my mind, I viewed my going on The Voice a bit like stepping out on a lake that’s just become frozen. When you realise that the ice is quite thin, you don’t just run to the centre of the lake and jump around. But you can slide one foot on the ice, when your other leg stands on firm ground. Stars dance on ice; I don’t. I barely touch it, and I decided to treat the programme like that.

  One leg on the ground, one on the ice.

  A lot of people manage it. Musicians, too. Just look at the guy from 30 Seconds To Mars, Jared Leto. He’s good at being both the actor and the lead singer. He had a great role in Lord Of War; he was in Fight Club, Requiem For A Dream … these titles speak for themselves. He’s doing well with music, too. I don’t really like his band—their music is rather shallow—but they did succeed, so there has to be something in it.

  There are quite a few similar examples: Tom Waits, Iggy Pop, Keith Richards. The last one is a living legend, the absolute giant of the guitar riff. He somehow acted in a movie and his halo didn’t come off. He actually didn’t have to play anybody; he just went on the set and played himself. He has charisma x 1,000!

  Well, yes, but there are many more people from heavy metal who haven’t appeared in front of the cameras than have.

  There is one guy who came there from a dark cave. His name is Jonas Åkerlund, and he debuted as a drummer on the first album by Swedish legends Bathory—the unquestionable pioneers of black metal. He began his adventure with the camera by shooting videos for other black metal musicians like Dimmu Borgir. Today, he is one of the most desired video producers anywhere. Now he makes videos for artists like Duran Duran, Lady Gaga, Madonna. In Poland, the very concept of someone like this guy being in the mainstream is something completely new. But in the West, a lot of people from the musical margins have managed to infect popular culture.

  But Åkerlund abandoned his niche and focused on something totally different …

  … and I didn’t. The show, the big screen, challenging myself in other music genres—all this is good, but I know my ground, and I stick to it. There are people who claim I crossed the line a long time ago, but that’s not what I think. I don’t visit discount stores and I don’t play shows at shopping malls. In all that I do, I find happiness. I think that if there’s adrenalin in your stomach, then everything is OK. The programme gave me that feeling, and I don’t think I whored out in any way, shape, or form.

  How did you view yourself in the role of a TV juror?

  Good, I think. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t have any fears at the very beginning. On the first day of shooting, I went for coffee with singer-songwriter Ania Dabrowska. It just so happened that I made friends with her at the very beginning of the whole process. I started telling her about my doubts and she just smiled and said, ‘Adam, now you can do anything.’

  Isn’t life about being able to say these words to yourself? I had entered into an absolutely alien world. But I wasn’t intimidated; that’s not my nature. I don’t really have any difficulties with meeting new people, so I quickly found myself on the right track. In a way, the show actually liberated me. My tolerance level for the world was quite high prior to the show, and it became even higher thereafter. I met a lot of wonderful people: at Rochstar, in the crew, on the show; they approached me with no apprehension, very wholeheartedly and friendly. And I paid them back by being the same way.

  What about the other jurors? You made friends with Ania quickly, what about Piasek?

  Artists such as Andrzej are people who are normally laughed at by people like us—rebellious and defiant: ‘Oh, here he comes, the guy from the radio with his tear-jerkers.’ Stylistically, we were light years apart; we were brought up in totally different environments, but it turned out that these two different worlds are actually similar.

  With the same groupies?

  No, in Andrzej’s case they were definitely not the same. Anyway, it quickly became apparent that he’s just a cool guy with a lot of self-distance. He also had this huge curiosity about the world and also for my world—although I didn’t know how to perceive him at the beginning.

  I went up to Andrzej before the show when he was getting his makeup done. I introduced myself, said I was happy to work with him. He responded in a serious tone. ‘I heard you’re all right. I hope it’s true.’

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but the distance quickly shortened. A few days of shooting and it turned out we were on the same wavelength. There was this verbal ping-pong between us all the time. I subtly tried to abuse him verbally, but it was impossible to knock him out. On the contrary: he always paid back, even if he did it very subtly and discretely. I felt that we were on the same level, and with each day our mutual fondness grew. We respected each other. We are still in touch to this day, actually. We meet when we can, and sometimes we even eat dinner together.

  What about the other judge, Kayah?

  At the beginning, Kayah was distant—not just from me. There was some friction between her and Piasek, and especially between her and Ania, like there usually is between women … sometimes Andrej and me would just look at each other when we didn’t know what to say. Kayah responded very emotionally to normal conversations about age, appearance, or motherhood, but I got used to it, and later it was all much easier. I found common language with her, too.

  Of course, sometimes there were frictions between all of us; sometimes it got really rough, but I think we complemented each other perfectly. Ania: always distant, sometimes maybe even blasé, because that’s the way she is. Kayah: very emotional, sometimes choleric, sometimes even hysterical. Andrzej, with his quotations of classic Russian writers. And me … I’m not going to judge myself. I was unpredictable, that’s for sure, a bit of a jester, a bit of a wise guy.

  Did you get along with the hosts, Magda Mielcarz and Hubert Urbanski, too?

  These relations were purely professional. They’re pros. I’d even take that a stage further and say they are cold pros, and that’s in no way negative.

  Did you ever feel that maybe you didn’t belong there?

  There were certain situations that irritated me. During the initial days, when we chose people to be on our teams based only on their voices and performances, I felt insecure. I second-guessed my selections.

  I had the impression that I didn’t have anyone really good—that is until Monika Urlik showed up. The other teams seemed strong. I was getting frustrated, even though I reminded myself that the show was just about having fun.

  Besides, I did make a few mistakes. I don’t want to name any names, but some things sounded good in the studio, I was delighted, and then when I watched back on the TV, I just couldn’t listen.

  Maybe your own technical limitations were being shown up?

  Maybe. The other jurors sometimes let me feel that I was not a vocalist; that I didn’t really know much about the art of singing. Like when I chose Ares, the Crazy Greek. He was damn effective, even though technically he wasn’t too good and, stylistically, he was rather one-dimensional—just like me—but he had his niche and he could sell himself in it. He certainly wasn’t a dud. I knew he wouldn’t win the show, because he wasn’t an outstanding singer, but he showed this and that to some people. Just like the metal representative of my team—Filip Sal
apa. I hope they both succeed and conquer their musical backyards.

  You’re not a distinguished singer either, but you did sing on the show, or at least you tried …

  I’m a screaming vocalist, not a singing one. There’s a huge difference. My art requires the scream—something primitive and wild. It’s atavistic. I do understand that for some people, seeing a growling guy on the stage might seem weird, but for me it’s as natural as breathing. I don’t think I can sing—I just pretend that I can.

  But it wasn’t a voice that turned out to be the biggest sensation on The Voice.

  As my friend Lipa sings, ‘Everyone has his own thorn.’ My presence on the show turned out to be a thorn for a lot of people; it was like stirring up a hornet’s nest. What happened after the broadcast of the first few episodes was like The Matrix. By that time, we had already begun the first rehearsals with the band, and we were preparing for the tour.

  The show became sidelined a little and, suddenly, my being on the show became the main topic of a nationwide discussion. I felt like a comic-book character, like somebody was drawing my history on the spot, only I was standing on the sideline watching. Bishops, politicians—people whom I have never even heard—suddenly made it a point of honour to say something about me and describe me as either a blasphemous Satanist or their buddy. I knew it would pass; I tried not to get involved emotionally. Usually, it just made me smile.

  Weren’t you afraid they would remove you from the show?

  That was not a possibility. Both the producer and the TV network wouldn’t have stomached that, from a financial perspective. They would have had to pay me compensation. I’ve got a great lawyer, and he took care of all that before I signed the contract. Also, there were a lot of people who supported and defended me. People from Rochstar had my back, too. All in all, the producers risked the most.

  Wasn’t there any pressure from them? Didn’t they want you to sign a get-out clause?

  We got along with the producer, Rinke Rooyens, from the very beginning. But he did, in fact, worry that I would do something stupid during the live shows. But I didn’t go to The Voice to insult people. They mentioned some clauses, but I didn’t sign anything. That’s what my lawyer advised me.

  Were there any other suggestions from the producers?

  There were some from the TV people. Before the show was broadcast, some people already started imagining potential problems in their heads. They knew what they were signing up for, but as soon as I actually put my signature on the papers, somebody thought it might not be a good idea to put me in front of the cameras.

  Rinke called me, desperate, and said, ‘Nergal, go on some other talk show, maybe Szymon Majewski’s, and show people that you’re a cool guy and you don’t bite.’ I declined. That was not an option, because Majewski—as much as he is nice and intelligent—cracks really poor jokes. Or maybe I’m just an idiot and don’t get his sense of humour.

  A few million Poles like his shows, though.

  And to this day I have no idea why. There is no content in the discussions; it’s all just a cabaret of poor quality: a lot of confetti, glitter, and noise. It’s definitely not Monty Python, let’s put it that way. Somebody likes it, so what? There’s this saying, ‘People—eat shit! Millions of flies can’t be wrong!’ It fits perfectly. Going on Majewski’s show would insult my intelligence, and Rinke respected my decision.

  But the media storm was not going away.

  It calmed down a bit when Zbyszek Holdys—the musician, poet, and journalist—appeared on the show. He’s a real authority—a guy who always has his opinion. I respect him and I always have. When he became my aide in the show it was a message to the world that Nergal is not as bad as they paint him. However, some people with intelligence issues still criticised me, and Rochstar did all they could to warm my image up. They wanted me to go to a hospital and take pictures with sick kids.

  Did you do it?

  I did visit hospitals. I did visit people, but I didn’t do it for the spotlight. That would be pure opportunism, and I despise such things. I considered it enough for me to focus on being a good judge.

  But you did put Baphomet’s figurine on your neck.

  So what? Some people wear a cross; some people wear a devil. Whatever works for you. I’m not the kind of man who is bothered by religious symbols on people’s chests. Such things don’t necessarily have to divide people.

  I was at dinner with Frank Bello of Anthrax recently. He was born and raised in a very religious Italian family. He doesn’t hide his beliefs—there’s always a cross hanging from his neck. You think I ripped it off him? That’s absurd. I respect his views and he respects mine. We’ve talked for hours, and it was never an obstacle for us. Of course, there are people who shouldn’t necessarily show off their faith in such a way. I mean teachers, politicians, police officers … but let other people put what they want on their necks.

  You were a good boy on TV but it wasn’t so great off air. There was an issue with the disabled …

  I think that was the crowning moment of that litany of bullshit about me. The level of absurdity reached its peak.

  At a Times New Roman concert, you were wearing a stole and pretending you were healing people in wheelchairs.

  Everybody who knows this band also knows it’s pure cabaret. These guys have been playing for years and they organised a concert for their fiftieth anniversary. The idea was that they would dress as themselves, but from the future. It was supposed to be funny, and my performance was absolutely spontaneous. It had nothing do with any provocation whatsoever. Roman and Patryk are my good friends, and when they asked me to go onstage, I just did it. Sometimes I get the impression that I can’t even smile in public, because people will find some new meaning to it and look for a hidden agenda.

  But there have been accusations that you were ridiculing the disabled?

  And who formulated those? The media and politicians, or the disabled themselves? I’ve never heard a word of criticism from the disadvantaged people. But, indeed, a lot of people didn’t really understand what happened at the concert. People accused me of ridiculing the sick after I myself had managed to overcome leukaemia. That’s not the case. I showed something completely different: I keep a distance between myself, from death and the world around me.

  Sickness is not a taboo for me. You can’t treat people in wheelchairs as any worse or better than others—this is what’s twisted. I know their situation is fucked up.

  Some time ago, I was signing albums in a bookstore in Szczecin. The first thing I said to people who came there was, ‘So, you’ve come here to see a dead man?’ It’s not about putting myself in some kind of elevated position and showing people that I’m better. You just have to prepare the world for certain subjects. Besides, what has more healing power than laughter?

  A few weeks after the Times New Roman show we played a concert with Behemoth in Torun. Right after we finished, my friend, the singer Agnieszka Krysiuk, came up to me. She said, ‘There’s this guy in a wheelchair, he’d like to have a picture with you.’

  I went to talk to him. The very moment I posed for the picture, he took out a piece of paper that read, ‘I’m looking for a healer.’ It’s just beautiful that a guy in such a difficult situation has such a great attitude to the world. Besides, I have a few seriously sick friends—do you really think I would make fun of them?

  We know you, though. People who read these glossy magazines may not.

  Take Adrian Kowanek of Decapitated, for example. When I met him, he was an extremely vigorous twenty-year-old with his whole life ahead of him. In 2007, he went on tour and he had a tragic accident. One of his fellow musicians, Witek Kieltyka, died.

  Adrian is in a wheelchair; there’s practically no way of communicating with him, although the doctors say that he’s aware of everything that’s going on around him. I met him during one of our concerts in Kraków. I smiled at him, took his hand, but inside I was screaming in pain. I felt terrible pity and d
ebility. He was a great singer in a great band. And it’s amazing how much love he experiences from his family and friends. They treat him like a normal and healthy guy. They talk to him, take him to concerts …

  Let’s go back to The Voice. Were you a good judge?

  I’m not in the position to judge that.

  Try.

  We were in a producers’ meeting, just before the final episode of the show, where each of the contestants was supposed to present their single—a song they had written themselves. I hadn’t discussed this with the producer previously, so I was thinking hard about how and where to get a song for Damian. I knew that I wouldn’t come up with anything myself on the spot. My brain boiled, and my stress levels grew. They were enhanced further because the rest of the coaches had already managed to get things done with their contestants, long before the finals. But next to Damian’s name they had written, ‘We have nothing.’

  All of them talked about their songs, and then it was my turn. I was trying to talk my way out of it, so I told them that we hadn’t had enough time. I panicked a little and I asked one of the producers, ‘What are we going to do?’

  They stared at me like I was crazy and told me that Damian already had his single. I showed them the piece of paper in front of me and told them that, unfortunately, he didn’t. They all burst out laughing. It turned out that ‘We Have Nothing’ was the title of the song that Damian did with Michal Grymuza. So that’s the kind of coach I was.

  But you did win the show.

  Damian did. I only chose songs for him.

  Didn’t you favour him a little?

  Since the very beginning I said that I came to The Voice to find a strong rock voice—a vocalist that Poland lacks. But that doesn’t mean I favoured Damian. For a long time I was sure that Monika would win the show. Ukeje won with her in a fair fight; he developed incredibly throughout the whole show. I’m really proud of him, like I’m proud of all my team who managed to get to the live shows.

  Did they make a solid team?