Dark Days: A Memoir

by D. Randall Blythe

  I was led upstairs and sat down on a bench outside the courtroom beside Johana, who had told me the day before she would be my translator again. Soon we were joined by Martin (whose foot was now wrapped in a fresh bandage after his surgery), Tomas, and Martin’s partner at his law practice, Vladimir Jablonsky. Vladimir was a heavy-set man in his late fifties with a deep, rumbling voice who spoke English in a thick Czech accent. Martin told me that the court was running a little late, as the judge was inside debating on whether or not to allow the paparazzi and press into film the proceedings. Martin also mentioned something about two Americans who were there filming, supposedly making a movie about my band. I wondered if these two were Don Argot and Demian Fenton, documentary makers from Philadelphia we had hired to make a movie about our fans across the globe.

  The movie, entitled As the Palaces Burn, was conceived by lamb of god’s former manager, Larry Mazer. His original idea was to turn the cameras away from the band and towards our fans, particularly fans with interesting stories who lived in economically depressed countries, or in societies where heavy metal was not really accepted, or places that lived under the threat of war. He wanted to show how heavy music helped these fans in their sometimes challenging day to day lives, our band merely being the vehicle to illustrate a more universal point. The movie was never supposed to be about lamb of god in particular, but about the global music community we are part of, and I was pretty pleased the band wouldn’t be the focus of yet another usual lamb of god tour dvd (we have several out already). Don and Demian had already traveled extensively with us, filming shows and interviewing fans in Venezuela, Colombia, India, California, and Israel, and had fit into our crew quite nicely in a short amount of time—these guys could hack it on the road, and we had become pretty close friends. The majority of the filming was supposed to be done, but if Don and Demian were there, it meant the movie was about to go in a radically different direction, one I was none too pleased about—the cameras would be back on me. Regardless, I was disappointed when we were allowed into the courtroom and I did not see them. I would have welcomed most any familiar face, especially that of a friend.

  Although Don and Demian weren’t there, shortly after being led into the small courtroom and taking a seat on a small bench in front of the judge, about ten other camera men were let into the courtroom and filmed me for two minutes at most. I sat up straight, with my hands clasped in my lap, staring expressionlessly and approximately forty-five degrees downward at a spot in front of me in a modified version of the posture I assume when I meditate. I couldn’t exactly crank out a half-lotus in the courtroom without looking like a nut, but I did sit up straight and attempted to clear my mind, striving to appear calm before these jostling camera men. I avoided looking at them purposely, with the exception of one quick glance to see if Don and Demian were present. I didn’t want to give them any possible fuel for the over the top tabloid headlines that were being printed daily about me—I could just see tomorrow’s papers already: “Blythe stared unrepentantly into the cameras, his ice blue killer’s eyes scanning the courtroom as if looking for his next victim.” (That sounds ridiculous, I know, but as the reader will later see, it actually isn’t at all considering some of the things they printed about me.) The way I was dressed was already bad enough.

  What I wore in court was, of course, the clothes I had been arrested in. On my feet were black socks and a pair of size eleven black and red Adidas skate shoes I had bought two weeks earlier in Germany. For pants, I had my favorite threadbare pair of Army surplus store cut-off camo BDU’s, held together by road dirt, splotches of white enamel from painting my shed, dental floss, and a few patches, the most visible of which was a row of assault rifle bullets with the words “Made In America” embroidered below them on the leg, and on the other a black square with a chaos arrow and the word “DESTROY” printed on it. The black t-shirt I wore was a gift from my buddy JP of Homage Skate Shop in Brooklyn, NY. It had the words “HB Crew—NO MERCY” printed on the front beside the dancing punk rocker from the Circle Jerks logo. Completing my ensemble was a black hooded sweatshirt with the word “Obituary” printed boldly across the front, the letters filled with the red, white, and blue of the American flag and stylized in the logo of one of my favorite death metal bands of all time. To make matters worse, I hadn’t bathed or shaved since the evening of my arrest, and I didn’t even have a hair tie to pull back the unruly mass of dreadlocks that covered my head. I had done my best to pull my dreads back and tie them in a knot, but strands of loose hair were sticking crazily out. I resembled a weed-dealing serial killer with a severe lack of regard for personal hygiene. Looking all punk rock in court is not the brightest idea—dress up and look nice when you go to court, no matter what you’re charged with. It matters, and it matters big time. I know this to be true from experience—one time I caught a whopping sixty-five community service hours for pissing in an alley when I showed up to court in Doc Martins, a leather jacket, dirty jeans and bright blue hair. Judge “Rotten Ralph” Robertson had not been pleased, and his sentence showed it—the usual punishment was fifty bucks and a scolding.

  Sitting in the courtroom in Prague, I realized I was pretty screwed. I really could have only looked worse if I had had on a Charles Manson t-shirt and a swastika carved into my forehead. If good ol’ Rotten Ralph back in Richmond had given me sixty-five community service hours for showing up in his courtroom with blue hair on a peeing in public charge, what would this judge possibly do to me for wearing an Obituary hoodie and a NO MERCY shirt to a manslaughter arraignment?

  After the cameramen were hustled out of the courtroom, I was told to stand. The judge began by reading a bunch of legal stuff in Czech, which Johana my translator informed me was the charge against me. Judge Petr Novak was a handsome man in his forties, with a clean shaven head and a not unpleasant manner. He asked me a few general questions about myself and my job, a slight smile on his face as I answered. Then Martin spoke, the judge answered, Vladimir spoke in his gravely basso profondo, the judge replied then made a few statements of his own. This set off a whole new round of statements by all three men, Johana translating simultaneously as best she could. Johana told me that the gist of it was that my lawyers were objecting to my arrest and incarceration on various grounds and that the judge was discussing the eligibility of the charge and the possibility of bail. It was all very fast and very complex, and this would set the basic pattern that all of my future court dates would take for me: swiftly spoken and extremely confusing. At some point the judge asked me how much money could I raise immediately for bail, and after a moment’s thought I answered that between my band and me we should be able to get together one hundred thousand dollars without too much of a problem, low-balling him a bit. After more discussion between my lawyers and the judge, finally Judge Novak looked my way and spoke directly to me, staring intently through his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “He wants to know why he should grant you bail, and why he should think that you will return to court if he does,” Johana translated.

  I paused, making sure I was staring the Judge right in the eyes (for I don’t trust a man who can’t meet my eye, and I wanted him to know I meant business), and spoke slowly and deliberately.

  “Because I am a man of my word, my family has been informed of my arrest, and I wish to clear my good name as soon as possible.”

  The judge stared right back at me for a few minutes, gave me a small smile, then called for a brief recess. I was taken outside by the bailiff and sat back down on the bench next to Martin, who told me the judge was deciding on whether or not to grant me bail. Then we sat in silence waiting. I wondered if I had made a favorable enough impression of being an honest man on the judge. I hoped so, but I really wasn’t too optimistic, considering my shabby appearance.

  Shortly the bailiff opened the court door and we were all led back inside. I stood before the judge as he read his decision. I had been granted bail to the amount of two million Czech koruna (crown
s), about two hundred thousand American dollars, exactly double what I had told him I could raise. The judge said that I would be released when the Czech government had received and deposited the money, but until then I would be sent to Pankrác Remand Prison in Prague. The judge also said that he wished the record to state that he was not so sure that the charge against me was justified, but that was a matter to be decided at a later time. Court was then dismissed, and we all filed out into the hallway. Once there, Martin told me that I might get out of custody as early as five days from then, providing the prosecuting attorney (who didn’t bother to show up for my bail hearing) didn’t raise any objections.

  “But for now, I am going to prison, right?” I asked Martin.

  “Yes, you are going to prison.”

  “Have you ever been to this Pankrác place?”

  “Oh yes, many times,” Martin said. “Oh, it is a terrible place! Absolutely horrible. The worst prison in the Czech Republic.” He visibly shuddered at the memory of being there.

  Good grief—it just gets worse, I thought.

  “I will see you soon—good luck. Ciao!” Martin said cheerfully with a little wave as he wobbled off on his bleeding stump. The bailiff took me to the paddy wagon, and locked me back into my seat. As we pulled out of the gate and left the courthouse, the paparazzi was snapping pictures the whole time. I sat and stared out the windshield at the buildings passing by as it started to sink in.

  I was going to prison.

  part 2

  PANKRÁC

  chapter nine

  Ah, Pankrác! Just saying the word (rhymes with “man rats”) brings forth a flash flood of highly varied emotions and memories rushing through me—fearful, angry, sad, even bizarrely hilarious and oddly contented thoughts and feelings permeate my being when I remember the reality of my time there. I had no idea what awaited me as the van left the courtroom though. I only knew I was entering an unknown realm, and that I had better do my best to watch my back. I wish I could have kicked off this chapter with a bold, pithy statement about entering the necessary mental and emotional state one needs to survive when going to prison; a strong, masculine, assertive string of rugged, work-boot clad words that would make me look calm, wise, and stalwart in the face of possible long-term incarceration—but I can’t. Riding along in the back of the paddy wagon, looking at what little I could see of Prague passing by through the windshield, I wasn’t weeping and falling apart at the seams, but I wasn’t exactly a model of stoicism either. Mostly I was just confused and very nervous. Just four short days ago I had been sailing on an antique boat through an astonishingly beautiful fjord, heading toward an island where I would rock out in front of a few thousand Nordic fans, not a few of whom were gorgeous, blue-eyed, and extremely well-built women. Now I was riding literally in chains in the back of a beat-up paddy wagon with a blown suspension, heading toward a prison that had been described to me as “the worst” in the country; a prison full of (what I could only assume would be) dour, muscular, and violently-inclined felonious Slavic men. At the very least, I was fairly certain there would be a pretty severe shortage of hot Scandinavian chicks in tight fitting lamb of god t-shirts in Pankrác Remand Prison. I was correct.

  Looking back and remembering that ride now, I think I was actually too nervous to be scared, if that makes any sense. Every hair on my body was standing on end, and my adrenaline was flowing. It felt like every single synapse in my body was firing off at once—I was juiced, a ball of jittery energy that had nowhere to roll. I tried to calm myself, but my mind was racing like a tweaker who had won an all-you-can-smoke meth lab shopping spree, sprinting from one extreme to another in milliseconds.

  HolycrapholycrapholycrapI’mgoingtoprison!

  Calm down, bro, you’re gonna be all right.

  ManwhatthefuckisgoingonhereIneverkilledanyonehowdidthishappen?

  Take it easy, man—you’ve been through worse. Just be cool, man.

  JesushchristI’mgoingtofuckingprisoninaforeigncountrythisissome-craaaaaazyshit.

  You’ve been locked up before and you’re still alive. Just keep your wits about you, man.

  HolyfuckinghellIdon’twanttogetshankedorrapedI’mgoingtohaveto-fightmyassoffinthere.

  Relax dude, you’re not going to get stabbed or raped. Just be cool and you’ll be all right.

  I have no idea how long the van ride from court to the prison took, because my psyche was too busy playing a light speed game of emotional ping-pong with itself, but eventually the paddy wagon stopped in front of the solid metal gate of a high razor wire topped concrete wall. The driver beeped his horn and the gate slipped open, a guard holding a black pistol grip 12 gauge Mossberg motioning us in. We pulled forward about fifty feet and stopped. The driver killed the ignition, then turned around, and looked at me through the wire grate that separated us.

  “I go inside for a minute. I will be back very soon,” he said, his English accented but spoken with ease. He got out of the van and shut his door. There was no air conditioning running, and it was a very warm and sunny day. I began to sweat almost immediately. I sat in the van perspiring for two or three minutes, then he returned and slid open the van door and a delicious breeze blew in.

  “I am sorry, but we will have to wait here for a bit. There is some problem going on inside.” He reached in and unlocked the metal bar pinning me to my seat.

  “Dude, take your time. I’m in no big hurry to go in there,” I said.

  He gave a little laugh, then asked me, “Would you like something to drink?”

  I said I would, and he walked away, leaving the van door open. I guess he knew I wasn’t going anywhere—we were behind the prison’s tall outer walls now, and I was still in handcuffs. I slid down the seat a little toward the open door, but not too far. I wasn’t trying to get blasted by a shotgun toting guard during my first three minutes in prison. I craned my neck to see what I could of my new home. The outside of Pankrác actually looked kind of nice from what I could see—from my restricted vantage point, I saw a fairly neat-looking standard-issue European building. There were even some freshly painted flower boxes lining the short flight of concrete steps leading up to the clean, white building’s heavy front door. Maybe this place wouldn’t be as awful as Martin said. Soon the driver came back out with two cups in his hand; a coffee for him and water for me. I thanked him and drank my water in two gulps. He took my cup and sipped his coffee.

  “I am sorry this is happening for you,” he said in a kind voice, “I am a big fan of heavy metal.”

  I waved my hand-cuffed hands in a No worries, dude, it’s not your fault gesture and said, “Really? What bands do you like, bro?”

  “I listen to Bathory, Finntroll, a little Rammstein,” he said. “While we wait, would you like a coffee?”

  “That, my friend, would be awesome,” I said. He left and walked back into the prison. This was going much better than I had expected. Maybe there would be other early black-metal loving guards and inmates inside. Soon he returned with a mug of coffee with foamed milk on top. I’m a black coffee kind of guy, but I wasn’t about to ask this nice metal head guard to go fix me another. I took a sip—it was hot and tasted heavenly.

  “Thank you so much—I was dying for a coffee. What would you call this in Czech? Caffe?” I asked, using the fairly universal European term for coffee.

  “Cappuccino,” he said, with a raised eyebrow and slight grin, his expression saying Dude, haven’t you ever had a cappuccino before? He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket, lit one up, then offered, “Smoke?”

  “Dear God, yes please!” I said. I hadn’t smoked a cigarette in over twenty-four hours, and I was practically drooling over the smell of his smoke in the air. He gave me a square, I put it in my mouth, and he leaned into the van and lit it for me. I took a deep drag, and everything within my entire being instantly changed.

  Suddenly, I didn’t give two flying shits that I was about to walk into prison for the first time. I didn’t care at all tha
t I could possibly remain there for ten years. All the stress left my body and mind, all was right with the world. It was a sunny day in Europe, and I was drinking a cappuccino and having a smoke with my new friend, discussing Scandinavian metal. Life was good; in fact, it couldn’t be better.

  Whoa! I thought as I quickly came to my senses, This is really fucked up. I’m getting ready to go to freakin’ prison and I feel perfectly normal, not a care in the world, just because I’m smoking a stupid cigarette? I must be completely out of my mind! Holy crap, I have to quit smoking these damn things—they are way too powerful.

  I have done just about every drug there is to do—hard, soft, natural, synthetic—you pretty much name it, and more than likely I have drank, snorted, smoked, or gobbled it, sometimes not even knowing what it was (and certainly not caring). I have entered psychedelic states of consciousness so far out there that the entirety of the universe has become my own personal Richard Pryor, every single atom comprising existence itself in a tiny stand up comedian, designed solely to make me laugh. I have flown so high on opiate feathered wings that I told that amateur Icarus to eat my dust and kiss my ass as I blew past him and actually made it to the sun—he obviously didn’t know how to party. I have drank so much alcohol that I have woken up in a different state (and I’m not talking about one of mind) with no clue as to how I got there until the sleeping girl beside me, the crazy stalker girl whom I had previously been avoiding like a case of the shingles woke up (both of us were fully clothed—thank you, God) and cheerfully informed me that I had called in sick to work last night and that we were on our way to New York City for a romantic weekend getaway, together at long last (oh God, no—NO!). I have seen, said, and done many strange things while under the influence of many different substances, but I have never, ever (before or since) done anything that has taken me instantaneously from the worst thing many people can imagine (going to prison) and effortlessly slung me into a ridiculously false five-minute realm of pure bliss like that cigarette did.