Russian girls are like Polish ones. They are bohemian.
I have the impression that Russian women are much less calculating. Besides, when we play a show in Moscow, I am much more anonymous than I am in Warsaw. In Russia, I know that a girl who wants to spend the next few hours with me will then disappear from my life, but in Poland? I have to consider it five times before I even think about going into an intimate situation with a girl.
Polish women are calculating?
Sometimes. Very often I have the feeling that they have ulterior motives beyond sheer fun. It seems that it’s sometimes about my social status, and that, naturally, makes me reluctant.
Is there anyone in the band who is not so reluctant?
There is, but I won’t say anything more.
Did you notice any changes in your audience after you started showing up in tabloids and on TV?
There were voices at our shows that had changed. One of my friends even refused to come to one of our shows. I thought that he understood me and knew how honest I am when it comes to the music that I make. But he said that memories are very important to him, and he wanted to remember us as a band playing for serious people—not for ‘one-season’ fans. That’s his right.
Yes, but is he right?
We conducted some sociological experiments with the guys and we checked what kinds of people show up at our shows. It turned out that the audience still mainly consists of true metal fans. Maybe they are a bit younger, but that’s only natural. It’s a shift of generations. Of course, there were some busybodies looking for cheap stories who only came to see the guy from the television. But they constituted only a small proportion of the whole audience. Anyway, our attitude hasn’t changed: we play for our loyal fans.
Were the Polish shows successful?
Most of them were sold out; people were hungry for Behemoth. But we were regaining our form slowly. We started pretty well. The European tour was very good, and in the States, where we went later, we got better still.
But then America greeted you with a concert that was cancelled on ‘religious grounds’.
The club that booked it, three months earlier, cancelled the concert. The owner agreed to a concert by Behemoth, Watain, and The Devil’s Blood, and then he changed his mind. If I were a God-fearing Christian, I would probably look at these names and say, ‘Oh, no, no, you will not play at my place.’ Ultimately, I viewed it as good promotion. A kind of a gift for Easter.
Have you had situations like this before, in the States?
We’ve had to cancel a few shows, but only because of technical issues. That was the case on the Evangelion promo tour. We were driving through North Dakota in winter when we found ourselves in the middle of a snowstorm. We were in some fucking backwoods place, like in Fargo. All we needed was a pregnant police officer …
We stopped at a gas station. We knew that the gig was fucked. There was no chance we could get there on time. But that wasn’t our biggest problem: the heating on the bus had failed. It was fucking freezing. The gas station crew let us inside. We bought some blankets. It was a night of living like tramps …
A few other people were in the same situation; the police were out in the streets, directing everybody to the gas station. The next day we were supposed to play in Chicago, a few hundred miles away. In the morning we were in really bad shape. We slept on the floor, shivering, and it’s not easy to rest in such conditions. Finally, the highway was reopened. The bus’s heating system still didn’t work, but we were on our way, even though the temperature inside was well below zero. We were driving in silence, muffled in blankets. Road conditions were difficult, so reaching the nearest city took us a few hours.
No matter what we did, it would have been impossible to get to Chicago by bus, so we called our promoter. We found the nearest airport and caught a plane to Chicago. We only took our instruments and the most important gear. Before the show we only just managed to take a shower and went onstage right afterwards. American winter versus Behemoth: 1:1.
The next time you went to America was in the spring, so you couldn’t complain about the weather.
It was beautiful. I really took advantage of it—I jogged every day, I exercised a lot …
At least you didn’t have to hide from paparazzi.
I met one in New York City. I was wandering around Manhattan with my two friends Julka and Kinga. We were checking out local boutiques. We were sitting in a Rick Owens shop in South Village; I’m trying on this new pair of shoes when I look out the window and on the other side of the street there’s this guy with a huge smile on his mug, taking pictures of me. The shop’s staff noticed it, too, so they curtained the window off. But the guy just wouldn’t go away.
When we walked out, he still took pictures of us. I whistled to him, he obediently approached us, smiled, and—before I had managed to say anything—apologised for disturbing our privacy. He was a Pole, and he’d been working in the States for five years. He promised not to follow us, wished us a nice day, and was soon on his way. His behaviour was extremely different from what I knew from the streets of Warsaw or Gdańsk. He didn’t anger me. I even wished him good luck with selling the pictures …
They were published in the tabloids, so he probably earned something. The weather was good; the mood was good; how did the shows go?
The reception was amazing. People knew what I’d been through during the last couple of years. They supported me. During shows, I like to watch the people in front of the stage. I always do that. Seeing my fans gets me going. That was the case on one of the first shows on the tour. At one moment I saw this guy holding his T-shirt high above his head so that I could see what was printed on it. It said ‘Fuck cancer’. Wow! I felt strange … maybe even a little moved.
Another time, I saw a fan in a T-shirt that said, ‘Nergal versus Leukaemia: 1:0’. That gave me an awesome kick. Things like that create a bond. You just realise how important your fans are to you. Sometimes they’re even like family. The more you respect them, the more you feel like unstitching yourself onstage for them.
Were there more stories of this kind?
Our second last concert was in the Palladium club in New England. The venue was packed. I look at the audience. On one of the balconies I see an older, skinny guy. I have the impression that I know him from somewhere. He watches me closely. A few times our eyes meet, but I am absorbed by the show, I drift away on the stage …
An hour later, I’m taking a shower. Suddenly our tour manager knocks at the door and says, ‘Nergal, hurry up, there’s somebody who wants to meet you.’ I get dressed, walk in the room, and I see the guy from the balcony. He introduces himself.
‘Tom Hamilton, nice to meet you.’
He points at a boy who was with him and says it’s his son, who is our big fan, and the pieces fall into place; I match the face with the name. ‘Fuck,’ I think to myself, ‘the guy from Aerosmith brought his son to our show, what a blast.’
In the meantime, Tom starts to share his thoughts on the show. He talks about our music, and I am amazed at how much fun he actually found in it. He could easily be my father! Besides, he is one of the pioneers of hard rock. I stand face to face with a legend, and I try very hard not to show that I feel very small. When he mentions his band, I try to make a joke, and I ask, ‘You play in Bon Jovi, right?’
‘No, Aerosmith,’ he replies, equally seriously. He’s absolutely unfazed by it. It turns out that he knows my name, he’d heard about my sickness, and tells me how happy he is that I managed to overcome it. A moment later, he points to the side of his neck and shows me the mark where he had his tumour cut out. More time passes; we talk, take some pictures. Another exceptional day in a wonderful life.
Is the support of other people from the music industry important to you?
I take pride in the fact that I work with many people with whom I am connected not only by business but also by friendship. In twenty years, I have learned that if you’re doing business, you need
to have eyes in the back of your head. There is always someone who will try to fuck you over and stick a knife in your back.
Fortunately, I also meet exceptional people and I try to keep them close. Michał Wardzała—our Polish publisher, and the boss of the Mystic record label—is a great example. It all started simply enough: he offered to release our album and I agreed to that, even though I was still careful about my every move. My trust grew over time, and today I trust him like I trust my own mother. He’s my friend. The chance to work with this kind of person is a real treasure. Their support was and is priceless for me.
Do you feel fulfilled?
The life of a musician is a peculiar one. It’s easy to become too big for your own shoes. Each evening you get on the stage and you hear a thousand throats scream the words of your songs. After the shows you get alcohol and other things for free, girls are just waiting to lock themselves in the dressing room with you.
There have been a lot of guys who thought it would be like this forever. Many were quickly out of the game. There are thousands of people who are just waiting for your one bad move. And then they will force their way into taking your place. If you want to make your living in music, you have to remember that.
Do you remember?
Our bus stops in the middle of the Alps; I can see mountaintops bathed in sunlight. I get out of the car and go to stretch my legs. Everything around me is so beautiful that it takes my breath away. It is in this kind of situation where I realise what a wonderful surprise my life had for me. I keep on telling myself: ‘Darski, don’t fuck it up.’
Do you sometimes feel writer’s block?
Often.
Do you fight it, or do you just wait for it to pass?
I fight. I try to overcome it but then I get doubts. Should I be fighting? Is that honest? Shouldn’t it come freely without this fight? Is what I create still authentic?
Well, is it?
At moments like this, I think about mountain climbers—guys who climb 8,000 metre peaks. It’s not easy, nice, and cosy. Or, I think about women.
Women?
The emotions that accompany you when you fight for a woman might be compared to those I feel when I try to write. When a man conquers a woman, it’s not always easy, is it? You conquer her, you fight for her; sometimes she reacts and sometimes she ignores you. It’s like a dance. And this is how I dance with my guitar all my life. It’s my utensil.
It seems easy: you just grab it and play.
It depends how you approach it. A utensil—as its very name suggests—is supposed to be utilised. I’m not talking about playing for its own sake or the sounds themselves, but about something much bigger, more complete. I find it hard to say the word ‘art’, because it’s quite a big word. There’s a wholeness attached to it. You have a vision—a picture in your head—and you want to express it in a particular language. In my case, this language is the language of music. That poses quite a few problems, because I am no virtuoso. Of course, I keep trying to get better at what I do, I work hard, but some things are just insurmountable for me. So I have to realise my vision with the skills I have at my disposal. But they are only one side of the story. There is also imagination, which is like a motivational power … but that is limited as well.
Young Nergal’s sorrows …
It does look a bit like that, because music is often born out of pain. A carpenter takes a piece of wood, works on it, polishes it; he cuts it, he saws it, but he works according to a particular scheme. He already sees in his head—and sometimes even on paper—the chair that he’s supposed to make. I create differently. I take a piece of wood and I carve it with a hit-or-miss method. I look for an accurate form. Sometimes it takes weeks. But it makes you even happier when you manage to find the right shape, even if it’s still quite gnarled, heavy-handed, full of splinters.
All this creating is quite painful?
The inability to create is especially painful. And extremely tiresome.
How do you overcome it?
I need to be alone. It may be a cliché, but loneliness motivates you when you’re creating. When I think that I’m about to take my guitar in my hands when somebody is walking around the house, I feel nothing would come out of it. Even if it’s somebody close … the very sound generated by somebody’s presence may well be an obstacle.
So you’re home alone …
Just like today, I looked out of the window. As you know, I live close to a church, so I saw a huge cross in splashes of heavy rain. I suspect that most people would get really sad when seeing this view: because it’s raining, because it’s cold, because it’s just another day and you have to keep doing all the same things. But I was cheered by it. And this emptiness in my house, this silence—all that worked as a soundboard. And it was THE moment. I took my guitar, I strummed a few chords, and all the pieces fell into place. Everything matched.
And if it was sunny, and a loving wife was in the house?
It would be difficult to play the right chords.
Isn’t that a bit like a creative masochism? People say that artists make their best works when they suffer.
That’s what they say.
Is it true?
I wrote Evangelion after breaking up with a girl I’d spent a year with. I really felt terrible. It was the only moment in my life that I sought help in pills and antidepressants. That and the fact that I started creating like crazy made my total breakdown fade into nothing. That record turned out to be our biggest success, and not just in commercial terms.
It’s quite brave to say, but don’t you think that admitting to have been taking antidepressants collides a bit with your artistic image? You’re always so full of vitality and strength.
I am not embarrassed by it, and I don’t have any problem with it. When you get your ass kicked by life and you can’t even get out of your own bed, why would you be reluctant to get an antidote, even if it’s chemical? It’s a method just like anything else, but what matters is that it’s effective.
If I am supposed to get into a building, it doesn’t matter what method I choose in order to do it. It just needs to work, that’s all. I can be like Spider-Man and climb up the wall, I can be a sprinter and run up the stairs, or I can be a cat and try to jump from roof to roof … besides, do you know why the turtle is hard? Because it’s soft.
So the shell of a hardcore metal-head hides a sensitive soul inside?
It’s not just about my psyche but about me as a person, including my body. It’s like you’ve tried to combine a child and a titan into one character. That’s how I am constructed. With time, I get more aware of my soft spots—areas where I feel defenceless. And I feel authentic fear that one day one of them will stop working. On the other hand, my attitude is like armour that enables me to walk through life like a soldier.
What is the music in this case? Your sword?
It’s more like a soundtrack to my journey. Don’t get me wrong, sometimes a good soundtrack contains a lot of silence. Lately there has been quite a lot of that in my life. Sometimes it has to be silent, so that sometimes there is an orchestra playing.
There are quite a lot of opposites in your life, aren’t there?
I think so. I must fall in order to rise and go up.
Just like Sisyphus?
It’s funny you should say that. I was thinking about Sisyphus not long ago when I was reminiscing about what has happened in my life during the last few years. I remembered this situation we talked about earlier. Once, after breaking up with my beloved, I felt like I had fallen down—like I’d hit rock bottom. My armour was broken, and I just couldn’t fix it myself. That’s when I reached for the pills. It was a major kick. On the one hand, it was superficial, external, but on the other hand I imposed strict discipline on myself and started climbing up again.
For a few months I lived like I was in barracks—the only thing missing was the daily drill. I started each day with heavy training, then I worked a lot with the guitar in my studio at home
. In the evenings I would read or go to the cinema. It was the end of December, and I was really amped by the thought that, all around me, this Christmas Eve show was taking place. People sitting, watching their TVs, stuffing their stomachs, and then me, muffled in three layers of clothes and a scarf, running through snow in the forest.
Like Rocky Balboa?
I’ve always been fond of movies where the protagonist gets really fucked in life, then gets a grip, gets up from his knees, and moves toward life’s adversities with his eyes open. That is what really impresses me about American culture—programming yourself to win.
Did you beat your demons, too?
All the time there was this feeling in me—the feeling of being seriously wounded by the breakup with someone I loved. But I also felt it healing. I started putting this feeling into words and sounds. That’s how the Evangelion album was created. I think it’s the best album that I have recorded to this day.
When Sisyphus reaches the top, he falls. You fell in a big way. You were close to death.
It’s difficult for me to assess this. I don’t know any appropriate measure that you could apply to such events and categorise them in any way. I really don’t know if a terminal illness is a bigger fall than breaking up with a woman. All this is extremely individual and dependent on thousands of factors.
You beat terminal illness, but you’ve been through many more breakups.
In a way, I even learned how to break up. Still, that does not make it any easier, I just know how to heal my wounds. In situations like this, a human being feels like a child in the middle of a forest. It’s dark, and you don’t know which way to go. And that feeling stays with you.
But I keep learning. I know that, instead of running wild, I must wait until sunrise. Light always comes, but never immediately. Honestly speaking, I can’t be sure if—whenever I find myself in such a situation again—I won’t just panic and start running blindly ahead. You never really know that until you’re there, do you?
Confessions Of A Heretic: The Sacred And The Profane: Behemoth And Beyond Page 25
