DOOM 94 Page 14

  One night after De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas had been recorded, but before it was released, Vikernes and Blackthorn went to visit Euronymous. What did they talk about on that icy-cold night? No record of that exists, but I think it went like this, with Blackthorn asking:

  — Can I smoke?

  And Varg answered:

  — No. I already told you. You can’t smoke in my car.

  — Why not? Smoking is evil!

  — The ancient Norse gods didn’t smoke.

  — What’s with all of you? Euronymous won’t let us smoke in his flat, either, because it’ll ruin the tapestries.

  — I don’t care what Euronymous says.

  — So I can smoke?

  — No.

  — What’s with you guys? It’s not good for you, this not-smoking. Trust me.

  — Smoking forced on us by the Jews.

  — God, I could kill for a cigarette. Now I’m going to have to smoke like a madman once I get outside.

  — But you can’t kill a legend.

  — Huh? What?

  — Calm down, we’re almost there.

  When they got there, Blackthorn stayed outside to smoke. Which is how he didn’t become the only witness to what went down between the other two. Venom said it happened like this: after Grishnackh’s gloomy phone call, a gloomy Euronymous answered the door, dressed in nothing but particularly gloomy underwear… While I thought the exchange went more like this:

  — Hi, Kristian!

  — Hi, Øystein!

  — Is Snorre downstairs?

  — Most likely.

  — Want a smoke?

  — Can’t, don’t have time.

  — Right. Rock, paper, scissors?

  — Rock, paper, scissors.

  I obviously don’t know the details, but Euronymous was stabbed to death. There was a lot of speculation regarding motive — dominance, conflict, love, deception — what garbage. He was stabbed over twenty times. ‘Eternally Euronymous, murdered by traitor’s hands’. Vikernes had laughed in the court room, and the prosecutor tacked on counts of arson of several churches, possession of weapons, and breaking the speed limit. You drove too fast, boys. He was given the maximum sentence, which in Norway is 21 years.[ 3 ]

  I listened to De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas every day. I liked listening to it every night even more, when it was dark out. When I could, I’d turn off all the lights and listen to it in the dark, staring at the wall, which I couldn’t make out anyway, or out the window, where I could see a tall chimney, a black or invisible silhouetted against the night sky. When I couldn’t understand the words — as was a natural occurrence with metal — I made up my own, thereby developing my spiritual side. My family no longer objected to my music, but it didn’t mean they became metalheads.

  As was bound to happen, I soon understood that Mayhem had become a cliché. The brilliant Finish black metal band Unholy would burn Mayhem and Burzum albums at their concerts. A true subculture guarantees you not only friends, but also enemies. I listened to the victim, to the murderer, and to those who condemned both of them. It turned out even black metal had its underground, full of bands like Abigail, Blasphemy… For the first time I saw that Hašek’s good soldier Schweik had been right — beneath the world we see there is another, even bigger, world.

  When there’s an earthquake, even a butterfly moves its wings. What Latvia needed was its own legendary black metal band, that much was clear as day. For the time being we didn’t have any black metal bands, but we needed a legendary one, immediately. It was standard; Venom was the first black metal group in the world, and certainly legendary enough. We needed one just like it. Although… Huskvarn supposedly had played something a little in the style of old-school black. But Huskvarn had always considered themselves thrash metal, so that’s what we’ll call them. Venom, who took his name from that same inaugural black metal band, stepped forward to become the next legend. Venom was the same guy I’d met my first time at the Stocks, the aristocratic metalhead with the long hair and sour expression.

  He was sharp and wistful. He liked anything that unsettled all that was good and constant in the world. He turned the adjective “bad” into something unsteady because for Venom, everything that was bad was good. He was a staunch atheist and nationalist. In addition to Pol Pot, he also liked Machiavelli, Satan, and Greek mythology. He’d even written his own versions of myths: ‘Arachne crawled out of the hollow of the tree, spitting out her own teeth’. He also liked Celtic Frost and, if you can imagine it, even Venom. He spoke so highly of the old blackmetal band that I sometimes wondered if he wasn’t a secret heavymetal fan. He was always sceptical about anything legendary. And yet he wanted to be a legend himself.

  In 1994, Venom and Slayer formed a band called Dark Reign. This happened about two months before the first iteration of Alfheim was put together. These two groups were destined to battle for the honorary title of First True Evil Latvian Black Metal Band.

  But the battle for first place was nowhere near being over. Venom had done almost everything. He’d legally changed his surname and spilled his own blood. Yes, exactly, all according to script. Once Venom was sitting in Kaļinin’s basement (a place where only the most absolute chosen ones could be [I never was]) and bitching about the water dripping on his head from a leaky pipe. His best friend and band mate Slayer was sitting next to him. One thing led to another, and Slayer took a knife and stabbed Venom in the leg. Venom took offense and left. Half of the crowd at Veldze was talking about it. What more could they do to win?

  I understood that, in order to form and maintain a band, there had to be a victim. Or a stabbing. What could I do? I got the idea to stab my eyes out, because blind people tend to have a great sense of hearing, and it could come in handy with music. But for the time being I held off and waited for another idea to come to me.

  But once again I was a little too late. Another small step behind the rest. What was the point in starting a band if it wasn’t going to be the first one?

  But neither Dark Reign nor Alfheim had put out a single record yet. And the way I saw it, a band was only truly born once it released an album. But that was probably because my relationship to metal had developed with me alone in my room, my arms around my stereo. For others it may have all started with a concert, a sacrificial cat, or a hectolitre of beer. But Latvia’s metal history was taking place right before our eyes, and I needed to be part of it. I was about the same age Euronymous had been when he had first started. I also had Sinister, who was older than me, and just as crazy about black metal. He was already drawing possible band logos (we didn’t have a name yet). He’d found a third band mate, a guy who was always talking about axes. The world was ours for the taking.

  I should also mention the main factor in all of it: the Moon. The indisputable anthem for black metal was Mayhem’s ‘The Freezing Moon’. Before they played the song at a concert in Leipzig, Dead had said:

  — When it’s dark and when it’s cold, the freezing moon can obsess you.

  These words became our personal mantra and the explanation for our destinies. That’s what happened. The cold, the moon, insanity.

  Almost every blackmetal band, and metal bands overall, invoked the Moon: Carpathian Full Moon, ‘Moon over Kara-Shehr’, Diabolical Fullmoon Mysticism, ‘Call of the Wintermoon’, Moonspell, ‘Behold, the Rising of the Scarlet Moon’ and more and more and more. The Moon, that mad skinhead, the sun of criminals and lovers, the lantern of vampires, to which people’s minds flit like moths to a flame — there is nothing more beautiful than the Moon. The young girl who started out at the Jelgava Dorothea Girls Primary School and then the Jelgava Trinity High School for Girls, and who later become the demonic poetess Aspazija, had been telling it how it was for ages:

  Let others have their nuts, their pies,

  We have the moon, there, in the sky

  A sweet, white, round moon,

  It only shines like that me and you.

  Don’t cry, my child, be
still,

  I’ll tell you something wonderful:

  We’ll hitch the tomcat to the cart,

  And to the moon we’ll both depart.

  For hundreds of years, people had been thinking about nothing but the Moon. But I had my own reason.

  It happened a long time ago, and of course, on a winter morning. I was navigating the Jelgava snowdrifts, though on my way to kindergarten, not high school. I hadn’t yet gotten lost in the wonders of my internal world, wasn’t yet hobbling through life like a blind man, but was fully aware of my surroundings. Up above me I saw the moon. At that age I already knew that things were only perfect in stories, and that you shouldn’t take reality so seriously. But there it suddenly was, completely, entirely innocent. Like a bullet hole to a better world. I could see the spots on it; there was the Indian who’d been dragged up there, or the Latvian girl with the nice bum — the were numerous stories with numerous theories. The Moon excited me.

  Everyone had seen it. All the kids were crowded around our teacher, shouting over each other:

  — There’s a pretty Moon out today! I saw it!

  I wasn’t at all jealous; still excited, I joined the group and said:

  — I saw it too!

  But one girl, stupid Sanita, turned to me and said:

  — No, you didn’t!

  I don’t know why she said that. I came up with a few reasons later, and thought about it a lot. But one thing was certain, that that winter morning was the day black metal came to Jelgava.

  * * *

  [ 3 ] The last man standing, Hellhammer joined the Christian unblack metal band Antestor, proving that, in the end, metal is the most important factor. Grishnachk was released in 2009.

  11

  On one of the first sunny evenings of early spring, Death asked me:

  — Your parents aren’t home now, right?

  And then added:

  — From what I heard.

  I nodded. My parents had gone to our cottage. Death had understood everything perfectly. Now he was rubbing his face and was apparently scheming something. I waited silently. Were we going to throw a party? Have our first band practice? Seduce some girls?

  — I know this guy who just broke out. Needs a place to crash for a few days.

  Even better!

  — He can stay here!

  Death looked up:

  — Really? That’s great!

  And he held out his hand:

  — Give me your keys. I’ll give them to him when I see him tonight.

  — I can meet him here.

  — I don’t know he gets in. You might not be here.

  It occurred to me that I definitely wouldn’t be here because I wouldn’t have my keys. But then I remembered that my mom had left her set, and I had them in my pocket. I gave them to Death.

  He sniffed in farewell, said ‘Stay brutal!’ and left. And I had to leave to meet Pūpols at Rainis Park.

  We met on time, like people did before the days of the mobile phone. We sat around for a good while, but we didn’t have anything to drink. I had thought he’d bring something, and he in turn thought I would.

  No matter. We spent our time undressing with our eyes the girls who wandered past. We ended up following the prettiest one. We came to some kind of communal garden area. The girl opened a small gate and let out a dog. We turned and ran. As I raced down the gravel road, I remembered that my house guest might be waiting for me.

  Where did he break out of? What do people break out of? Psych wards, for one. Jelgava has a psychoneurological hospital, doesn’t it? It does.

  A misunderstood genius, perhaps. Or wait, no, an overly sensitive soul who will look deep within me and recognise my genius. Maybe it’s even a girl? I mean, Death didn’t said it was a ‘he’. A girl, then. I’ll play My Dying Bride for her, serve her croquettes. No, My Dying Bride is so overplayed they probably even listen to it in the psych ward. I should play something more… Celestial Season? Ceremonium? In the Woods? They’re neither here nor there, but as a girl she should like it.

  Though now that I think about it, Death did say it was a guy.

  And the psych ward isn’t the only place you can break out of. People break out of prison, too. But no, that’s insane. You can’t break out of prison, they’ve got guards there.

  And then I stopped abruptly. The unequivocal and ironclad logic of every movie ever dictated that the person waiting for me back at my house was none other than Juris’ brother — the guy I refused to lend my stereo to.

  And then I remembered that I was being chased by tonight’s prettiest girl’s dog. And I was just standing there — and there came the dog, its ears flapping threateningly.

  In case I haven’t mentioned it before, I’m terrified of dogs. Cynophobia. And of people in uniform. Just like August Strindberg had been. There wasn’t a single person in uniform in sight, even though they would have come in handy tonight; and the dog, its ears flapping threateningly, drew even closer. The dog raced right past me, its left ear slapping against my ankle, and continued to chase after the still-running Pūpols. I hoped he’d get away. There was nothing left for me to do but go home.

  Dusk had fallen by the time I made it back to my building. I saw the kitchen light was on. The cocky, cold-blooded criminal was probably eating all my croquettes. I slowly climbed the stairs. Then I stood in front of our door, trying to think of a game plan.

  The world came to my aid. I heard someone unlocking the door from inside, and I sprinted quietly up to the fifth floor.

  From there I heard the person carefully lock the door and walk down the stairs. When I heard the downstairs door slam shut, I pressed my face to the stairwell window, but he must have been walking right along the edge of the building, out of sight. Clearly a professional. Probably off to kidnap some kid for dinner.

  I unlocked the door and went inside. I didn’t see any guns or knives. I went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The croquettes were untouched. I went into the family room. There, in the corner by my desk, was a new collection of things. It was pretty modest and compact. There was a carefully folded shirt, a few balled-up pairs of socks (it all looked like men’s clothes) and a fat book.

  I picked up the book. It was heavy, and felt good to hold. It had been read intensively. Maybe a little carelessly. A corner of the cover was bent, as if it had been used to hit someone over the head. The cover itself was black. Like a Bible. The title page read: Encyclopedia of Metal. I paged through it to make sure it wasn’t a book about metallurgy or craftsmanship. But it was about real metal. I flipped through to the Ms: Mayhem, Morbid Angel, Morgoth, etcetera, etcetera, My Dying Bride. It also had pictures. I flipped to the back: Winter; I flipped to the front: Anathema. But did it have Brutal Truth? It did.

  It even included bands I’d never heard of. Blasphemy. Black metal, judging by the name. The album cover looked legit, too. And the album title, The Fallen Angel of Doom, god, how great! It was produced by Osmose, one of the most sullen black metal record labels. Members: Nocturnal Grave Desecrator and Black Winds — Vocals, Deathlord of Abomination and War Apocalypse — Guitar, The Traditional Sodomizer of the Goddess of Perversity — Guitar, Three Black Hearts of Damnation and Impurity — Drums’. What romantics. Now I had knowledge. It was easier to get things once you had knowledge. But for now I had to calm down, sit down and study up.

  Then someone unlocked the door. And then nothing. They didn’t come in, didn’t take off their shoes, which is what someone from my family would have done. The front hall was silent. He must’ve noticed the light on in the room and were standing there wondering what to do. Wondering what was waiting for them in the other room — a trap or a victim?

  What do you do in this kind of situation? What had to happen for one of us to make a move? I was at least sitting and was holding a book. What was he doing? The phone rang. It was out in the hall. The only person who could be calling is my mom to ask if I’d eaten the croquettes. Or Death, who’d figured out w
hat was going on and was trying to warn me. Or the police. In any case, I could probably manage to pick up the receiver and get out a quick cry for help. I ran into the hall, where I found a young guy my age. He didn’t look scary at all. He had longish hair and was wearing a Sepultura shirt.

  — Hey.

  — Hey.

  — Death said… I mean, Death…

  — Right, yes, it’s fine.

  I rubbed my forehead.

  — Where did you bust out of?

  — Home. School.

  — Oh.

  I lingered for a second and then did as my dad had taught me:

  — Come on in. Welcome.

  — Isn’t that the phone?

  I picked up the receiver. It was Milēdija.

  — Hey.

  — Hey.

  — What are you up to?

  — Nothing.

  — Me to.

  The runaway stood nervously next to me. The phone was quiet, on both ends.

  — Okay, well, never mind. Bye.

  And she hung up.

  We went into the family room. I gestured to the armchair with the book, and then realized I still had it.

  — Sorry, I took your book. Just to look.

  — That’s fine.

  — Do you have any other stuff with you?

  — Yeah, some socks and a shirt.

  — Want some croquettes?

  — Sure.

  I went to the kitchen, put some croquettes on two plates, went back into the family room, put on Beherit’s Drawing Down the Moon, and we ate.

  12

  After the Junkyard was kicked out of the Bunker, it moved into the kindergarten. The one behind Tonijs’ house, before you take the turn to get to my mom’s work. During the day it was an actual kindergarten, but on Friday nights, when all the kids were home for the weekend, we took over. That was the path of the Jelgava Junkyard: from a villa to a bomb shelter, from a bomb shelter to a kindergarten.