You’re rather careful when speaking about Dorota. Are you afraid of airing dirty laundry in public?
It’s a question of manners. I speak openly about my feelings; that’s why we talk after all. But I don’t want to play dirty. Some time ago I denied an interview to a journalist, who often played dirty games with Dorota in some sick and twisted way. I told him directly that he was a piece of shit in my eyes. His face looked like I had killed his mother.
You’re friends with Kuba Wojewódzki, the Polish comedian and talk show host. He sneered at Dorota a bit, too; were there any problems there?
He’s a very smart guy with a great sense of humour, which I like. Even if he sometimes crosses the line, I think he’s very useful. He says what he thinks. He bashes everything; that’s his job. He bashed me, too, but I’ve always felt a sense of warmth behind these insults.
Dorota and I did have an argument about him once, though. We were channel-hopping one evening and she stopped on his channel for a second. ‘Wait! Wait! Let’s watch it!’ I shouted. And there it started. She accused me of being disloyal. For her, loyalty must have meant that I should feel the same thing as she does about every person. Dorota had a very peculiar view on these issues. Sometimes I even got the impression that she wanted me to log on to random internet forums to defend her from attacks by anonymous people. It was the same with Kuba: she thought I should get in my car and drive to punch him in the face because he dared make a joke about her on TV.
What if somebody had really insulted her? Would you have punched him in the face?
Of course. I didn’t have any situations like that with Dorota, but I remember, some years ago, that some tramp attacked Celina in a very unrefined way. We were at a train station, going to Torun. Suddenly, a bum came up to us. He was boorish and impudent. I didn’t say anything; I just waited. But when he started grabbing Celina, I couldn’t hold it much longer. I kicked him in the head. Literally.
Do you like fighting?
There are moments in life when you just have to fucking punch someone in the face. I used to be a volcano of emotions. As a twenty-something I did things that only make me laugh today. I had a girlfriend; her name was Kasia. We are actually good friends to this day. I was deeply in love then, but the situation was much more complex, because there was this ‘other guy’ on the scene. Things like that undermine the foundations. Nothing strikes a man as much as when there is a rival in the picture. No way is everyone getting out alive.
Did you beat him up?
He got battered physically. I was battered emotionally after that skirmish. In such a situation, even in a medium-sized dude like me, there’s a titan who can destroy the whole world.
That was a long time ago. What about today?
It’s not easy to change your character. Still, if something is not right for me, my negative emotions are sent out to the whole world. On the other hand, when I’m really happy, everybody feels my love. With time, though, there’s more and more harmony in me. When I’m pissed off, I’m not as furious as I used to be, but it’s also more difficult for me to be uncontrollably and childishly happy.
I must have come to terms with that fact that the strength of a man lies in his ability to pass some things over in silence and not get into emotional scrambles. It’s good when a man has this kind of stoic calmness in him. He can’t just be a mutt who jumps at someone’s legs. A big strong dog ignores smaller ones.
CHAPTER IX
THE VISION AND THE VOICE
A nice juror on a TV show or a radical black-metal musician. Which Nergal is real?
Both. Or neither. Depends on the who’s looking.
They’re just masks?
The real Nergal is in constant movement. He constantly searches. Like in Witold Gombrowicz’s books. I escape from one form and I fall into another. I don’t stay there too long because I’m always changing.
First and foremost, I’m a musician, but I don’t limit myself. I don’t want to close myself in any ghetto. I take up new challenges, I will try to write, and I may try to find my place on the TV screen if possible—who knows what’s next.
Do you have a problem with your identity?
It’s more of a comfort than a problem. I don’t have to stick to any given canons, and even if I do, it’s simply because I like them.
Which one of you likes it?
All of ‘me’. Nergal is a process. I’m still becoming. Panta rei. It’s the same with the music I play. Behemoth still escapes the schemata.
These escapes are not too radical, though.
It’s relative. Of course, we are not as radical as, for instance, Ulver. We don’t meander between primitive black metal, acoustic folk, and modern electronics like they do. They’re great, and I admire their attitude, but we’re Behemoth, not Ulver. We’re also not like AC/DC, who have nurtured their fans in such a fashion that any deviation from their style is perceived as sacrilege. We nurture our fans differently.
There are constant elements in our music. There is also a similar dose of extremity and, there is always—I hope—consistently comparable quality. What’s also unwavering is our honesty. The rest is fluid. I like that combination, and the fact that we can play what you might call ‘technical twisters’ but also simultaneously evoke simplicity.
But you don’t go beyond metal?
No, because we love it! It may be my biggest musical love and I want to embrace it. It’s our niche. But believe me: if ever a moment comes that I don’t feel these sounds, I will leave that arena and start playing something else. Behemoth will never pretend.
What about the other guys’ opinion? Could you imagine Inferno drumming to alternative music, say?
You’d be surprised! He recently convinced me to listen to Jane’s Addiction, whom I absolutely couldn’t take. The ‘idiot drummer’ is just a myth functioning among musicians. Inferno has a really unique taste in music. He plays the guitar better than I play the drums, and he can also make do on a keyboard. He might look like a metal radical, but I know him and I know his sensitivity runs in various directions. He loves Killing Joke, he adores Polish protest songs from the 40s; he also turns to new-wave stuff from time to time.
Isn’t it trendy to do so, these days?
I don’t know much about trends.
Is Behemoth trendy?
I hope so.
Some artists might consider that to be an insult.
Some people go with the flow; some fight it. I just don’t give a shit—at least when I act according to my own code. The rest is not that important. They are just categories. And it’s not just about music. I get the impression that we became trendy as a result of our attitude, anyway.
Are you sometimes a fan of attitude, too?
Morbid Angel, one of my favourite bands, recorded an album recently. They combined death metal with underground techno and industrial sounds. After giving it some time and attention, I would assess this experiment as mediocre when it comes to actual results. In the context of everything they have done, I would say the album is pretty poor. But, nevertheless, I am a fan of it, and I bow before its intransigence. These guys wanted to turn the system upside down. It didn’t work out? Too bad. But they showed huge balls.
Is Behemoth a commercial band?
I ate dinner with the guys from Anthrax, the guys from Ozzy Osbourne’s band, and the guys from a nu-metal band Ektomorf. We all talked about commerce. I said that the topic did not apply to me because Behemoth is an inherently underground band. The guy from Ektomorf almost spat his food out. He looked at me like I was crazy: ‘You think you are underground?! You have no idea what you’re talking about; look at your videos!’
I said that it didn’t matter how much money you spend on a clip, or that it’s viewed by a few million people. That only says something about your popularity. You can be famous and still stay out of the mainstream. ‘Underground’, first and foremost, is a message brought to people via music, and our message is undeniably extreme.
Danzig, at the beginning of the 90s, were both recognisable and radical. They sold out shows at stadiums, but that didn’t matter; it didn’t humble them. Another example: Laibach, another one of my favourite bands. These guys are extreme all the time. They provoke their listeners and live on the edge, but at the same time they’ve been flirting with the mainstream for thirty years.
Laibach ridicules pop culture, though. That’s a part of their ethos.
That’s right, but we’re called Behemoth, not Laibach. Our ethos is different.
More commercial?
If Behemoth plays music for the masses, then how would you describe the music of Red Hot Chili Peppers or Lenny Kravitz?
Maybe in your case we’re just referring to the metal mainstream?
I was at a Rammstein concert. There were ten thousand people in front of the stage. About a thousand people show up at our shows. Rammstein have about three hundred staff; we’ve got three people. Each evening they spend thirty thousand euros whereas our pyrotechnics don’t even cost three thousand zlotys.
I think Rammstein is a representation of the metal mainstream. Even my mother could conceivably like them. She actually hummed ‘Reise, Reise’ when I played it in the car.
What about Slayer?
They’re not commercial.
Every child knows Slayer, though.
Everyone knows who the devil is, too, but does that mean he’s a mainstream character? The devil is underground. God is from the mainstream.
And TV shows, like The Voice Of Poland? Are they commercial or underground?
They’re an adventure, let’s say that.
A good one or a bad one?
A good one, for sure.
What made you take part in that project?
Two factors: fun and money. I’d been fighting with sickness for a few months. I hadn’t played shows, so I hadn’t earned money. My savings began to melt. Whether I was healthy or not, I still had to pay taxes, and my treatment wasn’t cheap. Of course, a part of the costs were covered by the Polish national health fund, but not by any means everything. I went into the hospital as a wealthy man, and I left it with debts. We were due to play shows in the autumn. The devil himself gave me the TV programme on a platter.
So it was for money after all?
Maybe it was the deciding factor, but not the only one.
A lot of artists would rather eat their own shit than admit they did something for the money.
I’m honest. I can look at my own face in the mirror and I don’t lose my credibility. I don’t want to cheat the whole world and tell anybody that I did it for free. I did it also for the money, and I don’t see any problem there. I didn’t whore out; I dictated my conditions and they were met. So why would I say no? I signed the contract a few hours before shooting, when everything was agreed upon. And I’m not talking only about financial issues.
Did you earn a lot?
Enough to prepare for the autumn tour in relative calmness, yes.
How many zeroes exactly?
Six point sixty-six zlotys. Plus what was upfront. And I’m talking about each instalment.
Didn’t you hesitate?
I fought with myself for a long time.
How did the opportunity come about, anyway?
A nice lady from Rochstar called me and invited me for a conversation. I was at my friend’s house in Krakow, resting after my first stage appearance since leaving hospital …
You’re talking about the show with Fields Of The Nephilim?
Yes, it’s an amazing story. Back in the 90s, I was focused mainly on extreme music. There were only a handful of non-metal artists that really conquered my heart. I mean artists like Dead Can Dance, Diamanda Galas, or the aforementioned Fields Of The Nephilim. I got to know their music when I was sixteen, and they had a huge influence on the development of my music taste.
Did you meet them in person before the show in Katowice?
Yes, we actually recorded our own version of their song ‘Penetration’. And that was the song I sang on the Mega Club stage. Carl McCoy accompanied me; I had met him a few years earlier. I sent him an email and he wrote me back. It turned out that his daughter, Scarlet, was a fan of ours. He asked me for a CD with a dedication for her and that’s how it all started.
Some time later, my friend Ilona, who worked at Stodola in Warsaw, called me and said that Fields Of The Nephilim were playing a show there, and that they wanted all of Behemoth to come along. That’s when I met Carl for the first time. A few months after that we shared a stage because we played the Tuska Festival in Finland. Then there was an offer made for me to sing ‘Penetration’ with them at their next Polish concert.
I had to decline, though. We were touring with Behemoth in a different part of the world at that time. Then I just forgot about it, and I got sick, but as luck had it, Fields Of The Nephilim played in Poland again, a few months after I left the hospital. They offered me the same thing again, and I thought it was worth trying.
Did you feel up to it?
I was weak but I had to take part in that show. I felt that it would really be a magical moment. I remember the whole journey from Gdańsk to Katowice. When I entered the club, I could barely stand up. Not only was I debilitated physically, but I was also moved emotionally. I immediately smelled the characteristic scent. Every club in the world smells like that. It’s a bizarre mix of dirt, wood, spilled beer, cigarettes, and sweat. I love it. I immediately realised that I was in a place where I belong. That stage is my life.
Right before the show we divided the lyrics between Carl and me. I was on my knees when he introduced me. Normally, between songs, he says nothing and he gives just a quick ‘thank you’ at the end of the show. This time he introduced me as his friend. It was really damn emotional.
I got carried away onstage, and my throat was immediately dry because, in hospital, I had had enormous problems with the mucous membrane in my mouth. The problems kept coming back months after I left. The stress was paralysing, and I couldn’t even lift a bottle of water standing next to me.
In spite of all that discomfort, though, I suddenly felt, at that very moment, that I was experiencing the very essence of life. When I started singing, I got shivers. I have never analysed the lyrics to this song. Only then, on the stage of Mega Club, did I realise what they really meant:
Shining like gods, new body, new blood.
Just a few months previously, I had had a transfusion, the effect of which was a complete change of my blood type! I saw the people in front of me. They pointed their fingers at me; their eyes were burning.
So you managed it?
I felt terrible the next day. The trouble began during the night, and I had all the symptoms of a rotavirus. I went to the hospital, and that’s when the doubts came. I was wondering if I would ever go back onstage, or whether it was time to just retire. My friend and surgeon, Piotr Guzik, examined me. He let me stay in a room in his apartment. I was lying there under a drip that was put on a piece of bandage stuck to the chandelier by a nurse, Beata, who was also Piotr’s girlfriend. They took great care of me.
I was surrounded by thousands of vinyl LPs, almost all of them heavy metal. Piotr’s mother would come there every day and say, ‘It’s because you eat too little. Come, I fried some pork chops for you.’
I would always say, ‘But miss, I can’t—I have diarrhoea. I have to stick to my diet.’
‘No! You have to eat or you will be too weak!’
She would fry more pork chops, which she gave me with potatoes. They took care of me for three days. And that’s when I got a phone call from Rochstar.
‘Mr Darski, would you like to appear in the Polish edition of The Voice as a coach?’
Not quite. It was: ‘Mr Darski, we’re working on a project that you might find interesting. Would you come visit us in Warsaw for a noncommittal conversation?’
Did you know what it was about?
I figured that it was about some TV production. To be honest, my fi
rst thought was ‘over my dead body’, but I did agree to the meeting. I just stopped in Warsaw on my way back to Gdańsk. The people in the company were all very friendly. They welcomed me wholeheartedly, sat me in front of a screen in a comfy armchair, and played back a western version of The Voice. At that moment I already knew what direction the conversation was going to head in. I looked at the screen, watched the show, and thought to myself, ‘There’s no chance that I’m going to take part in that.’ I can’t sing, so how could I teach somebody how to use his or her voice?
Did you share these doubts with the people from Rochstar?
They tried to convince me that my role in The Voice would be different from that of a vocal coach—that would be the task for professionals. I would be there to unearth real talent. They counted on my intuition, and the fact that if I had gone all the way from a basement to the top of my niche. They made good points, but I still had doubts. I kindly thanked them for their hospitability, promised I would call them back, and headed to Gdańsk.
Was there any talk about your remuneration?
No. Besides, I didn’t even want to hear any figures. Later, I called the musician and one-time talent-show judge Kuba Wojewódzki and asked him a few questions. He told me what to expect and gave me a few good tips. He basically encouraged me to accept the offer. But I still battled with my thoughts. I felt good in my niche. Because of the relationship with Dorota, I had become recognisable. I’d been at a few media parties and, yes, I’d let some people photograph my face. But I still wasn’t exactly drawn to this world. Something about the idea was growing on me, however …
Confessions Of A Heretic: The Sacred And The Profane: Behemoth And Beyond Page 17