DOOM 94 Page 11

  When the show was over it was finally time to head out. Down to the street, a few turns, shrubs, shouting at the other groups of people heading to the same place, the sound of music already playing, possibly Bolt Thrower, and then we were there. In front of a classical building with four columns maybe a little on the narrow side. A noble and tender feeling came over me. This was the time and the place. I was surrounded by my peers, a sea of ripped jeans and flannel shirts, trainers and army boots.

  And in this place of total security, Nellija was suddenly coming straight towards me. Nellija and a friend of hers, who was a lot prettier than she was. Headed straight towards us, as if they were leaving the Junkyard. I tried to look in the other direction; I didn’t want to talk to her. But she didn’t say hi, just called over:

  — You limping?

  She didn’t wait for an answer; she had said what she’d wanted to say and they moved on. My friends looked at me, and Kārlis’ brother said:

  — You really are limping. Why’s that?

  I finally told them the whole story. Their reactions split them into two groups. Death and one of the others said:

  — Are you insane? Why’d you do that? What’s wrong with you? You could’ve hung out and watched a horror film or a porno, found something to eat in the kitchen, a perfect day. Why did you jump? Are you out of your fucking mind? Idiot. Moron.

  Zombie and someone else said:

  — Bullshit!

  They weren’t surprised that I’d somehow managed to get out of the apartment — they just didn’t believe me. But it was all forgotten pretty quickly as we reached the front of the Villa, and everyone went to say hello to people they knew. Everyone except me because I didn’t know anyone else.

  Well, it wasn’t that bad. DJ and his entourage were coming down the front steps. So it wasn’t only the lost children of the world who had become metalheads, but also some of its darker authorities. My heart skipped a beat — remember, DJ was the one who used to get on my case now and again. But would he leave me be here? He spotted me immediately. He came over to me, very close to me, and said:

  — You’re here too? What’s up, weezy!

  Then something really stupid happened. See, I was as fragile as a flower petal, a nerd, who had spent his entire life getting made fun of and pushed around. I just couldn’t take anymore. And that’s why, that’s why. DJ’s greeting had been extremely friendly, but “weezy” made something in me snap.

  I shook his outstretched hand and replied:

  — Go fuck yourself.

  I think he honestly didn’t believe what he’d heard:

  — Say what?

  My response to his greeting was an unusual one. DJ was a cult personality in this scene, and had always been a central figure to any scene, so he wasn’t used to hearing things like that. He hadn’t considered that this kind of response was more likely to come from a coward than someone with guts. I repeated myself:

  — Go fucking fuck yourself.

  — What?

  He looked like he was going to faint. He jerked his hand out of mine and grabbed me by the neck. I tried to twist away to one side, Kārlis’ brother stepped in, and it must’ve looked like a fight had broken out because suddenly there more people involved, maybe everyone in the immediate area. The world turned upside down. But there was no blood spilled yet. The number-one tactic applied to any metalhead fight was for someone to put his entire body between two potential enemies and shove them away from one another, keeping them at arm’s length. With enough people doing this, the scuffle was finally broken up and the mob calmed down, scattered across the perimeter of the Villa courtyard. There were still two guys, completely unrelated to our initial exchange, who were dangerously close to one another, fists raised, shouting, No YOU shut up and listen to me — but they, too, were quickly separated. DJ was on the other side of the courtyard; he looked around until he spotted me and shouted with existential despair:

  — Fuck, but why, but he said!

  But he was already being carried into the Junkyard — let’s go, time for some music. I was brought to stand by the railing of the front steps — stay here, have a cigarette. I had just taken a seat on the railing, safe between Kārlis and his brother, when some unseen force grabbed all three of us and we fell backwards into the darkness. Zombie had snuck up behind us and yanked us down; he just couldn’t leave well enough alone. For a second I had honestly thought that I was going to crack my head in two, that after escaping one enemy I was going to die because of my friend’s practical joke. We got back to our feet, and Kārlis’ brother asked:

  — So what happened back there?

  I had to say something, but I didn’t have a good answer. There was a lot to explain. About my internal exile, my childhood decision to read about forts instead of building them for real outside, etcetera. I mumbled something in response. Kārlis’ brother said:

  — You’re one to talk. It’s your first time here and you’re already fucking things up.

  And he was absolutely right. Luckily Zombie didn’t care about any of it. He said:

  — The music tonight really blows, huh?

  It was typical Zombie, coming to this castle of dreams and criticising it. But he was right, the music playing was something industrial, Psychopomps, maybe. Ugo must’ve been the one deejaying. Back then he was more into the punk and industrial stuff.

  I had made my way to the front door and could see the darkness spilling out of it and onto the city, but I still wanted to be inside. Then DJ came out with his entourage, Ugo among them — so who was deejaying? — and my friends casually pushed me inside, out of their line of sight. It was amazing! A large, dark room, filled with shadows of dukes. A row of theatre seating along one wall. Someone was sleeping on the ground by the chairs. Further along the wall were some girls. Wasn’t one of them Kristīne? There was a raised platform at the front of the room, a makeshift stage. On it was a table, and on the table were some stereos and some speakers; and climbing up behind them was Death, who had just replaced Ugo. He grabbed onto the edge of the table; the table wobbled and the tapes fell to the floor, but he finally managed, and soon we were listening to Napalm Death’s ‘Suffer the Children’:

  Your unflappable conceptions

  Moralistic views

  Never open to criticism

  Your overpowering ruse

  Promises of sanctuary

  In eternal bliss

  With starry eyes and cash in hand

  Pledge all to the master plan

  Everyone there either sang along out loud or at least mouthed the words. Death was the only one headbanging; he’d somehow gotten off the stage and was whipping his head around in front of the speakers. The idea behind headbanging is to achieve a trance-like state by attacking the fortress of your consciousness — the brain. Your brain gets slapped around when you violently shake your head like that, and our inner worlds are able to momentarily free themselves of thought and coming into direct contact with existence... In brief, it’s a form of meditation. Of course, it’s also a way to remind the world how long your hair is, kind of like a pissing contest, only more refined. My inner world really needed some calming down and I could get it by headbanging, but my hair wasn’t long enough. So I just stood there. But then a guy with hair even shorter than mine bounded over to join Death, and started to whip his non-existent mop of hair around. He even shouted up to the empty deejay chair:

  — Decide! Play Decide next!

  Decide was a fairly popular band at the time because they were loud and sang about numerous Satans. All the nutrients and vitamins you could ever need. I had seen this shorthaired, lawless guy somewhere before... But Napalm Death songs are short, and Death was already scrambling up on the stage to line up the next song. He had a good heart and a good sense of hearing, and Decide’s ‘Sacrificial Suicide’ blasted through the speakers — and the demo version, at that. It’s a really great song. The vocals were so energetic and hissing and you could only make out on
e word that was repeatrā, ed throughout the entire song: ‘Satan’. The shorthaired guy went crazy and started to scream, repeating at regular intervals:

  — Death to all that is sacred!

  I wondered where he’d gotten that from. No Latvian band had lyrics like that. How had he come up with the phrase? Then I remembered where I’d seen him before. In church — of course. He may even have been an altar boy. Everything fell back into place, everything was right in the world again. You have to be a priest to take part in a Black Mass. Well, or a pretty girl. There were a few over there by the wall — and wasn’t one of them Kristīne? Obviously, there was a lot to see and contemplate at the Junkyard. And I did just that, but something kept niggling at the back of my brain, making me look over my shoulder now and again. I’d made an enemy here, after all. And then DJ came into the room and headed for the stage. Kārlis’ brother gestured to me — let’s go outside for a smoke! Although clearly you could smoke inside, too.

  I’d come here to be with friends. How had I wound up with an enemy? I looked back towards the stage — he was talking to Death, but watching me. I looked away, slowly, bored, and headed outside with my friends.

  As we smoked, a face balanced on top of a thick stump toddled over to where we were. It was Čiriks, a chubby kid who always showed up wherever a potential fight was brewing. No-one had ever seen him take part in a fight. He was only an instigator, a motivator, a goader; a little sadist who’d wriggle out of the mud and threaten others with his strong friends, people he’d hang around in an strangely perverse way. And now here he was, his little face screwed up, asking:

  — Which one of you came at DJ?

  I hadn’t really even come at him; Čiriks must be talking about something else, right? Kārlis’ brother answered for me.

  — Nothing happened, it’s all good.

  He was a little older than the rest of us and wasn’t afraid of the Čiriks of the world. He just knew it was best not to get involved with them. Čiriks looked first to him, then me with disdain, and then slithered off down the stairs.

  We resumed our conversations. I laughed along with everyone else, but I didn’t feel right. And didn’t want anyone to know. Like when a person comes home drunk and the rest of the house is still awake, even though it’s midnight, and the person smiles in an attempt to show them he hasn’t had anything to drink; he says something funny, a joke, but knows that it came out wrong and off the mark. Then the person quickly says something else to fix it, weaves an intricate contextual web into which the stupid things he’s said can settle like pearls on a thread — but he can feel he’s only digging his hole deeper, that it would be better to break off mid-sentence, but no, he has to say something, and his family exchanges silent looks with one another. For example, Zombie had just casually announced that he had our physics teacher stashed away in his closet at home, and I, wanting to be like my friend, repeated his earlier sentiment:

  — The music tonight really blows, huh?

  Tonijs looked at me, and the curls of his hair tightened:

  — But it’s Ministry!

  Pūpols giggled. He knew how much I liked Ministry, and I did. And then there was DJ, coming outside with his arm around Death. But Death immediately dropped his arm from DJ’s shoulders and put it around mine. Without any build-up, he whispered into my ear:

  — DJ is going to come over here and say something to you, and you just go along with it. Don’t make a scene. He’s batshit, don’t take it personally.

  Then he stepped away and wrapped his arm around one of the four classical columns holding up the Villa’s gable. DJ sat down next to me and asked to bum a cigarette. He inhaled deeply and asked:

  — You know the band Unleashed?

  That was the big question. Music could right all wrongs. Why didn’t he ask about At the Gates, Brutality or Carcass. Fine, I get it, it would be dumb to ask about Carcass; it would be like asking if I knew what Europe was. But he could’ve asked about Demilich. Then I could talk and talk, and he’d understand. I’d never even heard of Unleashed. I said:

  — Sure.

  Kārlis chimed in:

  — That bugger Pūpols has two of their albums.

  But DJ was talking to me.

  — And what about Hypocristy?

  What the hell was that?

  — It’s Hypocrisy!

  My friends chimed in again to help:

  — Right, right, Hypocrisy, Hypocrisy.

  DJ thought for a moment. Then he leaned close to me and asked, without rhetoric, quietly, as if he’d missed the punch line:

  — Why did you come at me?

  Man, I hadn’t been able to answer the question the first time someone asked me.

  — I’d just gotten here... and all of a sudden you...

  — What?

  — ‘Weezy’...

  DJ leaned back and looked around. A generic metalhead was walking past. DJ called to him:

  — What’s up, weezy! Gimme five!

  The metalhead reached out his palm:

  — What’s up, here’s ten!

  So that’s all it was. ‘Weezy’ really didn’t mean anything bad. And so DJ wasn’t my enemy; he had accepted me, just as Ugo had, but I’d pushed him away. The misunderstanding had been due to a kind of language barrier. What I should have said was, sorry, I don’t have my metalhead—dipshit translation dictionary, forgive me. But I said nothing.

  DJ got up and walked down the steps, as if he were offended. He headed for the street. Čiriks sidled up to him and spoke quietly to him. DJ nodded decisively, walked into the street with his head held high, stopped, turned around and called:

  — C’mere! C’mon!

  He was talking to me. I looked to Death, but he was gone. He’d disappeared from his spot by the column. I didn’t look at the others, but I knew they were there, so I got up and walked down the steps. I was limping a little more than I had ten minutes ago, but a little less than I really wanted to; I couldn’t let my friends see me faking it. DJ didn’t seem to notice my limp at all, and kept gesturing — come on, come on. He was handsome, famous, strong, terrifying.

  I had almost reached him when there was the sound of screeching brakes, a black car stopped right next to DJ. Two guys, their heads shaved, got out — one tall, one short and stout. The tall one punched DJ in the face, and he fell to the ground. Then the tall one bent down and picked DJ up by the jacket, then tossed him aside onto the sidewalk. He’d been standing in the middle of the street, after all, and the car had almost run him down. The short, stout one looked around with a sneer, to see if anyone else needed to be taught a lesson, and then his eyes fell on me.

  — Oh, hey! How’s your leg?

  He reached out his hand to me. I shook it and answered politely, thank you, it’s fine. The tall one recognised me, too:

  — Good to hear! Haven’t busted anything new, have you?

  — Everything’s more or less in place, thanks.

  — Let’s get a drink sometime. Davai!

  — Bye!

  They hopped back into their BMW and took off. DJ got up and headed back to the Junkyard, cupping his face in his hand. I didn’t go back just yet. I was thinking. Do two run-ins with them make them my new friends? Will I still have any real friends left after tonight? After all, I’d renounced one of my own and accepted the hand of a stranger.

  7

  And so we reached the start of 1995. It was a major and terrifying year. Do you remember the film Terminator 2: Judgement Day, starring Arnold Schwarzenegger? The movie was made in 1991, but takes place in 1995. Its creators had predicted the future. That’s what 1995 ended up being, a neverending judgement day. And I’m not convinced that it’s over yet.

  The best music in the world was released in 1995, with the exception of what had already come out in 1994, and maybe even a little earlier than that. As soon as I had been turned on to metal, we were given the best representatives of the genre, the classics, the golden standards:

  Genre
Genre classic (band, album) Year

  Death Metal Cynic; Focus 1993

  At the Gates; Terminal Spirit Disease 1994

  Death; Symbolic 1995

  Black Metal Mayhem; De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas 1994

  Impaled Nazarene; Suomi Finland Perkele 1994

  Immortal; Battles in the North 1995

  Doom Metal Anathema; The Silent Enigma 1995

  My Dying Bride; Angel and the Dark River 1995

  Celestial Season; Solar Lovers 1995

  By the way, Death’s Symbolic was released exactly on my birthday. Talk about symbolism.

  But at the beginning of 1995 I didn’t yet understand that I’d created this world, that everything was happening because of me. I stood at the window and thought: ‘God, I’m such an asshole. I ruined everything. I betrayed my friends. Shook hands with the enemy, and they all saw me do it. Now what do I do?’ And I stared out the window. It was a rough winter. One of the first winters in the new era during which our parents could no longer say:

  ‘That’s nothing! In my day it was much worse than this.’ The snow fell and tumbled and didn’t melt. The old— crystalised sand and shit — mixed with the new, and it covered the ground in an endless layer, which is how I, trudging through the snowdrifts in downtown Jelgava, was connected to Milēdija, who was shovelling show near the Glūda train station; to DJ, who was sitting on a snow bank on the side of the Dobele Highway; to my metalhead friends, who were building a snowman just a few blocks away from me, and to the world at large with freezing, shimmering strings.