So you’re not a eulogist for political correctness?
I am tolerant, but political correctness, especially in the Unites States, is the peak of the absurd. A movie could be deemed racist there because there was no black actor in it—or if there is, he plays the part of a criminal. Come on, that’s total bullshit.
Should homosexual marriages be legalised?
Of course they should. Recently I read an interview with Clint Eastwood. This guy has been associated with rather conservative views for years. But, as it turns out, his attitude toward same sex relationships is liberal. He said, ‘Give everyone the chance to live the only life they have, the way they want to.’ So if a guy like this says something like that, what can I possibly say?
What about the adoption of children by homosexual couples?
I would lean toward saying yes there too. Why would two nice lesbians give a child less warmth than a heterosexual family where the father drinks and beats his wife? Sexual orientation does not influence my judgement of a person. But Poles have terrible theories lodged in their heads, both in terms of sex and of fashion.
Do you like to break schemata?
I bought some trousers in London: they’re red, with Scottish tartan and torn patches on the knees. They look like they were taken from Gangs Of New York or A Clockwork Orange. The previous day, I had seen a theatrical production of The Master And Margarita, and Azazello was wearing similar pants himself. I went back to Poland wearing them, and I met a friend who shouted at me from a distance, ‘What? So Punk’s not dead?’ So, because they’re red, and because they have patches, that makes me Johnny Rotten? Pathetic.
Wearing sunglasses after dark and inside is breaking the rules, too, isn’t it?
I love sunglasses, and I do put them on my nose quite often, even when the sun is not out. I have my reasons: I’m dazzled by people’s stupidity. Also, I can stare at girls’ legs with impunity, and I can stay anonymous in doing so.
Have you had any offers to endorse a clothing line?
I am a patron of just one: the Behemoth brand. I design our T-shirts and hoodies. I don’t do this on my own: it’s a collective effort, but I do have an influence on what our fans wear. This is creative, too. Our shop’s assortment is huge, and it’s not enough for us to put our album cover on a black T-shirt. Of course, it’s business—this is how we make our living—but we’re not afraid of brave things. Besides, looking at our fans’ preferences, I see that a lot has changed. A few years ago, a metal-head would never buy anything other than a black T-shirt with the band’s logo on it. Nowadays white, red, and sports-type T-shirts are quite popular.
OK, so: you’re not a good boy, but you won’t go to the Rock’n’roll Lovers Of Destruction Hall Of Fame, either?
Because hedonism is not the way to destruction—at least not my type of hedonism. If somebody swims and loves swimming, he doesn’t jump in the water to drown. It’s about the happiness that you get out of the activity; the very fact that you’re challenging yourself to swim a greater distance than the last time. I believe that you can consume life and not choke on it. I just like to control myself and my own fate. In fact, I like to control everything.
There’s a name for that: control freak.
There is some truth in that, because when I lose control, I become afraid. I think there’s only one exception: I love flying. I was talking about that with Rinke Rooyens recently. He’s a typical control freak. We both came to the conclusion that there’s nothing that relaxes us more than flying. You get on a plane, and it is the only moment in your life when you have absolutely no control over what’s going to happen. You just stretch your legs, pick up a book or a newspaper, and all responsibility vanishes. You have to trust a machine and the man who controls it. It’s beautiful.
Some people might get stressed out by that.
Not me. I’m calm even when there’s turbulence.
Do you clap when a plane lands?
I hate that! It makes me furious to even think about clapping on a plane. You should have your hands cut off for that. What the hell is that supposed to mean?
‘Oh! We made it this time! We’re alive!’ Is that what it’s about?
Nobody else in the world claps after landing, only Poles. You will get your head smashed by a brick on the street sooner than you’ll die in a plane crash. So why would you thank the pilots so ostentatiously? They landed because it’s their job. You might as well clap the bus driver whenever he stops at a bus stop.
There’s not a lot of space for risk in your life, is there?
I like to feel adrenalin, but only to a certain extent. It’s like spice, and you can’t overdo it with spices, because they might spoil the meal. And, equally, there can’t be too few of them, because the meal would then be insipid. Besides, let’s face it, I love life, and I want to enjoy it for as long as possible.
Maybe that’s why I don’t stuff myself with drugs, why I drink with moderation. I like to be conscious, and I want to set the tempo of the journey myself. Sometimes I run, but I want to also have the luxury of stopping, thinking, and resting from time to time. I’m not saying it’s better than rushing through life. It’s just the way I want to taste the world. Someone wants to do it differently? Go right ahead.
And if someone close to you chooses the path of destruction? What would you do?
You’re asking if I moralise? It happens, but subtly. I hate being preached to myself. It’s OK when it’s a friend, as I know he cares about me and wants to give me good advice. I don’t have to accept it, but I do appreciate it. It’s worse when someone takes on a mentor’s tone and goes on to explain to me how I should live. I can’t stand it; I just resist and don’t listen. So I approach my close friends carefully. I advise but I don’t impose—like a friendly ghost. Or like an offscreen voice of reason.
When you were in the hospital, fighting leukaemia, did it occur to you that you should have lived more dangerously and taken more risks?
My thoughts were quite different. I saw my whole life before my eyes, and I realised that I had walked through it just as I had wanted. I’d experienced a lot of things; I’d visited almost every place in the world; I’d met thousands of fantastic and inspiring people. I also met a lot of idiots, but that’s how it goes—you reach for the apple from the tree of knowledge and you get the full product in a package. You get what’s nice and also what’s a pain in the ass. I don’t feel old, but I think I experienced more than a statistical John Smith would if he had five lives.
You take a lot from life. What do you give in return? Does a hedonist want to give anything at all?
Because someone is a great journalist, that doesn’t mean he’s also a great mechanic or a tightrope walker. Let’s not demand omnipotence from ourselves. I believe we can become masters in one or two branches of life. There’s just not enough time for more.
Yes, I take a lot from life, but I’m not a parasite. I give the energy back by creating, by being a musician. I make my dreams come true and I feed thousands of people with my vision. Some people identify with it; some people draw strength from it. I believe there’s a balance between what I give to the world and what I take from it. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with being hungry for life.
CHAPTER XII
OUT OF THE LAND OF EGYPT, OUT OF THE HOUSE OF SLAVERY
On June 18 2012, you committed apostasy. You’ve been playing black metal for twenty years; why did you make the decision so late?
Out of laziness. In reality, I made the decision many years ago. There are things that you are sure are going to happen sooner or later but you always put them off. It’s usually obvious stuff and things that are very easy to do. That said, the process of apostasy is actually quite complicated. You can’t sign out of the church just like that. In my case, it could take up to six months. Of course, that’s all in an attempt to discourage even the biggest antichrist.
When did you visit your rector for the first time?
In the winter. I went to
the church that is only about fifty metres from my house. It’s funny, because I’ve lived in various areas of Gdańsk over the years but, eventually, I ended up in a place that was very close to the church where I was christened. I always end up close to the cross, it seems. That’s karma coming back to bite me, I guess.
Anyway, I showed up in the sacristy and was received by a nice, elderly lady. Unfortunately, she was unable to give me all the information I needed. The rector has a monopoly on that, and he was not there at that moment. So I went back a few days later.
Did he await you with holy water?
I was there before him. He had some kind of a problem with his car, and he was a few minutes late. He turned out to be a very friendly and matter-of-fact elderly man with grey hair. We shook hands and he invited me to his place.
Did he recognise you?
Instantly. Our conversation took a few minutes. He explained to me what I had to do to commit apostasy. Most of my knowledge about it was gathered from the internet. There are a few websites that describe how to leave the church. Besides, a few of my friends had been through it, so they gave me a few tips, too. I was convinced that I had to go to the church where I was christened. But the rector told me to go to the church in the district where I was registered.
Did he try to convince you to change your mind?
He didn’t try to convert me, and nor did he attempt to indoctrinate me. When I was leaving, the only thing he said was that whenever he saw me on TV, I looked like an intelligent and well-behaved man. I smiled and thanked him for the help, and we shook hands again.
Did you have to wait long for the meeting with the next rector?
That’s where it all began to get more difficult. I went to the church many times. The rector worked in the diocese, too, so his secretary justified his absences with an excess of duties. Finally, I asked her to give me his telephone number. I called a few times, but each time someone else picked up the phone. It took me a few months to finally hunt him down.
The right person eventually answered the phone one Sunday. The conversation wasn’t too pleasant. I had the impression that I was talking to a dense boor. He just didn’t get anything, even though I was speaking calmly and factually. I politely explained why I was calling. Each of my arguments was met with negation and verbal aggression. He finally told me that I couldn’t commit apostasy if I wasn’t a member of the parish, and obviously I couldn’t be a member of the parish because I didn’t attend mass or receive the priest at my house each year. He tried to tell me that the very fact of being registered in his parish meant only that I live in a given district, and not that I’m a believer. And only believers can leave the church …
It was all even more absurd because I was only registered there, but I lived somewhere else.
But you did manage to meet him face to face?
Somehow I did. I was afraid of the meeting. I knew it was going to be a battle. But I was prepared for a war. Besides, I felt that I had been preparing for it for years. I remember that it was going on at the time when the politician and activist Janusz Palikot committed apostasy, too. He nailed his form to the doors of a church like Luther. It was very ostentatious, but why not? I thought maybe that was the way to do it. I promised myself that if they tried to make it hard for me, I would provoke the third world war.
One phone call to a journalist friend, someone like Monika Olejnik who loved that stuff, and the whole of Poland would be talking about it the next day. I also consulted my lawyers, but there was nothing they could do. Church laws have nothing in common with civil laws. So, armed to the teeth with a pile of documents, two witnesses, and two recording machines, I set out to the sacristy.
But there was no scandal in the media?
The guy who stood in front of me didn’t resemble the moron on the phone at all. He was quite coarse and talkative, but in a peaceful mood. He asked me inside and offered me something to drink. At the very beginning he said, ‘Are you recording this conversation?
‘Should I be?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied.
Today, I know that it wasn’t necessary. It was an hour-long conversation that went precisely nowhere.
So you couldn’t commit apostasy just like that?
The priest went by the rules that he had printed out on a piece of paper. He had also prepared for this meeting. He informed me that I couldn’t commit apostasy on the day when the first conversation took place. He admitted that it was a rule to keep the potential apostate among the sheep in the flock.
I did understand his points, but I couldn’t comprehend how one could look at the world so one-dimensionally. Every time a word like ‘good’ or ‘evil’ or ‘sin’ came up in conversation, I felt like he was talking about some distant galaxy. He just didn’t get that there might be people who look at world in a different way than he did. Nevertheless, the atmosphere was calm—at times, even facetious.
What was his argument?
He told me, for example, that there must be something to the fact that people have believed in Christ for 2,000 years and stuck to the Catholic doctrine. I told him that I have a druid friend who still sticks to a tradition that is much older than Christianity, and it’s still alive and kicking. So, because of that, what? We should all wear Celtic robes?
Did he acknowledge that you were right?
He just mumbled that they had told him it would be no easy ride with this guy, Darski, because he’s quite clever. But he didn’t give up; he tried to convince me, sometimes very seriously, sometimes by telling jokes. I would argue, but most of the time I would just smile and nod my head. As I said, I had committed my apostasy in my heart a long time ago anyway.
I think he eventually grew weary of the conversation and, looking into my eyes, he said, ‘There they are, two stubborn mules.’ He knew he wouldn’t achieve anything, but he kept suggesting that maybe I should think about it all again. He expected a miracle. At the end, he added that apostasy would not change anything, because I couldn’t erase my actual christening.
So what? I still wanted a symbolical cut of this umbilical cord. He proposed a meeting, but he didn’t want to commit to a firm date. He wanted to give me time to think—but I didn’t need it. I insisted, and he finally gave up. We arranged a phone call for two weeks later.
Did he answer it?
The onus was on me. I called him on the eleventh of June, the day after my thirty-fifth birthday. The priest changed the subject to football. It was Monday, and on Tuesday there was a match between Poland and Russia. He asked me what I thought the score would be. I don’t know anything about football—I don’t like the sport, and besides I’m no Nostradamus—but for the sake of it I told him that Russia would kick our ass 4–1. He jokingly offered me a bet. He wanted to postpone the apostasy if I was wrong by three goals—he was a little gambler.
Did you get the score right?
I was at the Polonia Hotel in Wroclaw when the match was taking place. By the way, it’s not a very interesting place, quite dingy … anyway, I heard the voices of supporters all the time. Loud shouts of happiness, so I felt that I was losing the bet. Right after the match, the rector called me. He asked for the hundredth time if I hadn’t changed my mind.
I told him that it was quite the contrary: that with each day my determination was getting bigger, and that I couldn’t guarantee what my behaviour was going to be like in the next few weeks. We agreed to meet on the eighteenth of June.
Did you have any problems with finding witnesses?
No problem. My friends Maciej and Agnieszka were with me—a married couple. They came with their eight-month-old daughter—and before you ask, no, she wasn’t christened. She won’t have problems like that in the future, either; she will choose her own path.
What were your last moments as a member of church like?
It was not a good day. In the morning I had morphology tests, then I had to give some marrow for more tests; I also had to drink one and a half litres of a d
isgusting liquid, because I was having a tomography test of my stomach and chest later. I was short of sleep, in pain, and pissed. I needed sleep. At times like that, I’m a friend to nobody—far less a priest. I wanted to get it over as fast as possible.
The rector asked me to read my will aloud in the presence of the witnesses. Then he signed the document. He told me that the document would first go to the diocese and later to the parish where I was christened. And there they would put an appropriate note in my certificate of christening. At the very end, he pointed at my T-shirt and said, ‘I used to listen to AC/DC too.’ Even then he didn’t want to let go: ‘Just remember, Mr Darski, you still have three days to call it all off.’
‘I will sooner believe that you can rise from the dead after three days than change my mind on this,’ I jokingly replied.
Do you think that day changed anything in your life? Did you lose anything? Gain anything?
It was all, of course, very symbolic. My whole life was proof of what side of the barricade I was on; I just wanted to dot the ‘I’. It might seem like a small detail but it bothered me. Like a little thorn: almost invisible, but very irritating. I had to get rid of it. Just for myself.
During one of my visits to the church, the priest mentioned, en passant, that apostasy does not change anything. That it only causes the church sadness. I asked him if it occurred to him that maybe it’s that grief that I was concerned with?
Leaving the flock was not just a PR gimmick, then?
I didn’t run to the media with it; I didn’t call reporters to come to the church. Actually, it was this book that gave me the pretext. At the very beginning of our conversations, you mentioned you wanted to talk about apostasy. So I thought, ‘If so, then I have to commit it; I can’t find any better reason to move my ass to the sacristy.’
Apostasy is a departure. What place did you leave that June afternoon?
I left a very small, dark room, where, at least formally, I had been enclosed for my whole life. The very word ‘apostasy’ is fascinating. It’s like a keyword or, as I sometimes put it, a ‘power word’. By that, I mean that the words or symbols carry a clear message with them: a message that has a lot of content. There is a whole philosophy behind it. You don’t have to explain it because it speaks for itself. That’s why I chose that title for Behemoth’s Apostasy album. And this is also one of the reasons I felt it was important for me to commit it and buy my own ticket to the forest.
Confessions Of A Heretic: The Sacred And The Profane: Behemoth And Beyond Page 23
