DOOM 94 Read online

  — Where over there?

  The guards looked at the reeds, at the river. Three more dark figures joined our group. The guard turned to them:

  — We caught them trying to sneak in through the reeds!

  — Those are my guys! My band, and we’re about to go on!

  It was Mareks. And next to him — Tonijs.

  The guards all turned to look at Mareks, who said:

  — For real.

  And he pointed to us one by one:

  — Guitar, vocals, bass, second guitar and manager.

  Why god, why was I the manager! Anything but that!

  The guard had a follow-up question:

  — What about drums?

  Mareks answered, sounded the slightest bit offended:

  — I’m the drummer!

  Then the guards all turned to look at the third guy, who had come with Mareks and Tonijs, and looked to be more in charge than anyone. He asked Mareks:

  — But, but, but, but didn’t your band already play?

  — No, man! We’re next!

  The guy in charge looked embarrassed over not knowing the difference. He had the same long hair, but looked a little older. He gestured to the guards, fine, let them go. We all went inside. One of the guards asked:

  — But what were you doing...

  Another said:

  — And the girls! The girls? Who are they?

  Everyone looked to them, but the girls squealed:

  — It’s okay! It’s okay! We have tickets!

  And that’s how we all got in. Tonijs was furious:

  — What took you so long? We were waiting around like a bunch of idiots.

  Death asked Mareks:

  — Are you really on after Skumju akmeņi?

  — We played our set ages ago, Mareks answered and left, also furious.

  We sat down on a bench near the stage. Finally, after all the excitement we’d earned a bit of music.

  It was beautiful. The band’s vocalist was a woman — something that, for this genre, was rare in and of itself. At least back then it was. And she was even growling!

  The mute Earth smoulders silently!

  But the rest of the audience wasn’t that into it. There was only one fan jumping around in front of the stage, a rather pretty blonde girl.

  Zombie brought us each a beer in wobbly plastic cups. I took a sip and realized how good this music was. Helēna sang the ballad with even more tenderness, and the blonde girl jumped even higher. I was overcome with emotion, and I tried to get Zombie excited too:

  — It’s nice, isn’t it?

  — Sure; pigs squeal just as well.

  Such were his compliments.

  Skumju akmeņi finished up their set, and there was a long pause, as if we hadn’t just shown up thirsting for music. We had just taken our seats, Pūpols had only spilled beer on himself once and the question of ‘What now?’ lingered in the air, when an long-haired guy we’d never seen before raced over to us and whispered:

  — They broke Nose’s nose! Come on!

  We got up and followed him. He led us right up to the stage and around the corner, where a small group of people had gathered. Nose was standing with his back against the stage, wiping blood off his face. His nose really was broken, and properly at that — there was a dark cut across the bridge that was bleeding profusely. Nose touched the blood with his fingers and drew stripes with it across his cheeks.

  There were two younger guys standing next to him. But not my thugs. It was my childhood friend Anrijs, and Beast’s brother — who I was with the first time I’d gotten drunk. These three were surrounded by a group of metalheads. Beat’s brother seemed to be answering a question someone just asked:

  — But he pushed me! I mean, maybe it was an accident, I don’t know. But am I just supposed to let everyone push me around?

  I stepped forward and asked Anrijs:

  — Anrijs?

  He shook his head — no, I didn’t do anything. Some curly-haired guy, who seemed to be running things, gestured for me to get lost. It came off a little offensive, and I wanted to shout at my old friends: ‘You’re going to burn in Hell anyway, so kick this poodle’s ass!’ But I didn’t say anything, and I didn’t leave, either. Anrijs kept his eyes down and was slowly moving his hand towards his inside jacket-pocket.

  Just when it felt like something was about to happen, the security guards showed up. They we already angry for some reason. They snapped:

  — What’s going on here?

  Death motioned in Nose’s direction, see for yourselves. The guards looked at him. He just kept wiping blood off his nose and streaking it across his face. One of the guards asked:

  — Who broke your nose?

  But Nose said nothing. The guard lost it and yelled:

  — Who broke your nose?

  Nose really wasn’t having a good night — first his nose is broken and now he’s being yelled at. But why isn’t he saying anything? Death and the curly-haired guy were silent, too; everyone was silent, even Anrijs, who was looking off into the distance and swallowing nervously. Nose just shook his head and waved his hand — both gestures were ambiguous — and then he left.

  The rest of us wandered off in separate directions, quietly and without looking back. A guitar wailed, it was very familiar, a shiver went through me — could it be? Death and I looked at one another and raced back to the stage.

  It was Huskvarn! Back then, when everything was new and unknown, they were already ancient and famous (I had their newest tape, Bomb Brain Melodies). Everyone was headed to the stage, yes, Huskvarn! The drums sounded like a cannon that shot down everything that had happened so far tonight. The guitars wailed again, louder this time. The entire world truly, truly shook. We made it to the front row easily. A lot of better- and lesser-known celebrities had gathered here. Asleep on the bench closest to the stage, his genius’ eyes closed, glasses snug on his face, was the famous Joņevs, totally off in dreamland. Even closer to the stage, of course, Gustavs, a kid who followed Huskvarn around to all their concerts like a prodigal son. At that time he didn’t yet know that he would later become a rapper and go by the name Gustavo.

  Urbix grabbed the microphone and shouted:

  — Good evening, Jelgava!

  He didn’t know it, but these were the exact words the riflemen used as their password during the Christmas Battles in 1916. It should wake the spirits of the Latvian Riflemen (and it did). The drummer barrelled down with all his might: takatakataka! With a double bass drums, of course.

  The palace pianist, over in the chemistry department, slammed shut the piano cover, held up a translucent middle-finger in the direction of the open-air stage, and disappeared.

  Urbix roared into the microphone again, louder:

  — Good evening, Jelgava!

  This time his words travelled. A forgotten corpse at the edge of a marsh struggled to sit up. He was still half-buried, a bullet-hole in his forehead, but he listened. He heard what sounded like cannon fire coming from Jelgava. ‘They’ve already made it to Jelgava!’ the corpse-rifleman said and wriggled its way out of the ground. He even stuck his hands back into the marsh for a moment, and then pulled out a Mosin rifle. He swung the rifle over his shoulder, buttoned up his coat and began a brisk march in the direction of the sound.

  Meanwhile, we were already making heads roll. Ours. My hair was long enough now for me to participate in full-on headbanging, that wonderful metalhead dance where you didn’t have to ask a girl to join you and be subject to her pity; you could just whip their bums with your hair, but carefully so you didn’t accidentally smash your face into them. But girls were irrelevant here. I was a unique spirit in a thousand-headed body. Their bums were also my bums. But I didn’t need any of that, just the music that washed over us, and we ourselves were the music, and we washed over everything.

  And then I fell over. I slammed into the side of the stage, crashing into someone along the way. I knew this wasn’t a safe place to bump i
nto people, so I glanced over at my victim. The legs were a girl’s. A millisecond of a scenario flashed through my brilliant mind that this was the kind of meet-cute that would make a beautiful and tragic novel. I got to my feet, straightened my collar and looked at the girl. But she wasn’t alone, it was a couple, ugh, in a tight embrace. After I crashed into them they had momentarily unlatched their faces from one another to stare at me blankly. It was the girl Death had made out with at the kindergarten Junkyard, she turned and there were those oddly-shaped knees. She spotted Death and called to him, her lips glistening:

  — Hey, I know you!

  Then Huskvarn let loose another explosive passage in the greatest traditions of Jelgava thrash metal, and Death’s answer was swallowed by the sound. The girl watched him with a curious interest and tried to say something more. The guy she was holding onto looked at her in confusion. And I stood there like the biggest fool of all and didn’t know where to look.

  Then Huskvarn took a break, and the girl said to Death:

  — You have a new jacket!

  I looked at my friend. He was wearing a leather jacket. Was it really new? Hadn’t it been the same black one this whole time? But maybe she was right, the old one had had a rip in the sleeve.

  But Death gestured to me, come on, and we left.

  I felt bad for Death. I thought, what bad luck. I at least could wander through the metal world knowing full well that I’d never run into my crush, she was someplace safe, in the arms of a friend. But Death, he couldn’t have that. I wanted to comfort him somehow, but back then I didn’t know how. What was I supposed to do? Give him a cigarette? Does that counteract love? And I didn’t have any cigarettes, I’d been bumming them off Death all night. Although, in the name of historical accuracy, I have to admit that as well as empathising with him I did also feel a twinge of joy and relief.

  The corpse-rifleman was creeping towards the stage. He was almost there, just behind the port-a-potties. Any closer and he’d be right out in the open. He wasn’t afraid, just observed the situation at hand. It wasn’t a simple one. He saw people aimlessly milling about. The rifleman strained to remember the mission plan; but the plan had literally fallen out of his head. All that was left was a feeling, tamped down with native soil.

  Suddenly two figures came right towards his hiding place. The figures were me and Death. We each had a beer in hand, and a cigarette in our lips. I asked:

  — Wrw gng?

  I didn’t know how to talk with a cigarette in my mouth. Smoke was getting in my eyes. Death answered me.

  — T ps.

  The rifleman didn’t understand our language, but, when we put down our beers, he was right to suspect that we were about to pull out our weapons. He lifted his rifle, but didn’t know which one of us to take out first. For whatever reason, he picked me.

  — Pēteris, hey! Death called to another metalhead who was standing a few bushes over. He replied:

  — Hey!

  The rifleman opened his magazine and looked in. Empty. He must’ve shot off his last round before he was taken out himself. But he couldn’t really remember that far back. He tightened his grip on his rifle. He still had the bayonet.

  Death exchanged a few words with this Pēteris guy. I stepped over to introduce myself, but didn’t get the chance. Pēteris said:

  — Damn, I’m about to go on stage.

  — Who do you play with?

  — Y’know. Grindmaster Dead.

  And Death turned to me:

  — Grindmaster Dead is about to go on!

  But Pēteris cried out:

  — Oy!

  The rifleman had stabbed him right in the heart. Because he was a ghost, he was faded and invisible, and so was the bayonet, but it was still sharp, and Pēteris pressed his hands to his chest.

  — What is it? Death asked.

  — Nothing.

  But it was something.

  — We’re going, we’re going.

  And he hurried off to the stage. I didn’t understand what had happened — was he drunk or something? But what was there for me to understand. That was Pēteris’ story, not mine.

  Grindmaster Dead played a killer set. I couldn’t believe my ears, which was always the case when I witnessed something amazing. Real doom metal, like overseas. I pretended I was at a concert in another country, seeing a group from Sweden, or maybe even the Netherlands perform. They really sounded one of the legit bands from overseas. What I didn’t know was that this was one of the band’s last concerts — that Grindmaster Dead as my unseeing eyes knew it would be finished as of tonight.

  I glanced at Death to see if he’d forgotten his stupid heartache. He looked just as melancholy as usual. I nudged him:

  — Pretty awesome, right?

  — Totally.

  — What’s up, jerks!

  It was Arturiņš, the kid who had wanted to form a band with me in kindergarten, and his buddy Čurka. I was surprised I hadn’t run into them earlier. We shook hands, and they stared telling us:

  — We went to Store No. 6 to pick up some things.

  We could clearly see one side of Čurka’s jean jacket was heavily weighted down.

  — Everything was fine on the way there. Then on the way back — oho, man. There were, like, six of them. We hit the deck immediately. Well, I did, you maybe stood for a second longer. But I just covered my face, covered it and lay there, waiting, waiting, then I got bored. Finally I thought, how much longer?, and peeked through my fingers... and there’s just this ugly mug glaring right back at me!

  Čurka laughed as if the whole thing was just a funny, pleasant experience. He was so good at doing that that only the girls called him an idiot.

  — But the bottle? What happened to the bottle?

  — You can’t teach an old dog new tricks!

  Per usual, they had bought their vodka in a plastic bottle. We drank from an entirely unscathed bottle, and the boys got ready to go:

  — We’re going to take another pass around the area, and then meet up at the bridge. That’s where the real fight’s going to be.

  As they turned to leave, Arturiņš looked back at me:

  — Have you thought about what we discussed?

  It sounded good, like we were planning on stabbing the duke. I knew exactly what he was talking about, and answered:

  — I have.

  He didn’t ask what I had decided, just waved and left.

  But then I thought for a moment — maybe I didn’t really want to. Why did I have to be in a band? Why did I need the extra hassle? And what if it didn’t work out? And did I even know how to play anything? I didn’t need anything more. There are normal guys out there who never think to start a band.

  Then Death said:

  — Should we start a band?

  He asked it just like that, simple. I had to respond:

  — We should. It’s about time.

  — You play the guitar at home a lot?

  — Sure.

  I couldn’t contain myself, I had to ask:

  — What’ll you play?

  — I’ll sing, he sighed. I mean, I’d like to play the drums. But someone has to sing.

  — Who’ll play the drums?

  — There’s this guy... see, he could also just get us drums. But he wants to play, too. I think he’s actually pretty good.

  — No matter. Singing is fun, too.

  — And you have a guitar? Is it electric?

  An unexpected question. But he knows the answer already. Does he think I’d keep a thing like that secret?

  — Yup.

  — What? For real?

  — Well, I don’t have it yet. But I’m looking at getting one.

  — What kind?

  — A good one. A really good one.

  It was so good that it wasn’t worth talking about until I owned it.

  — You have the money for it?

  — Yup. I mean, not yet. But I’ve got a sure way to get it.

  Death believed me,
no questions asked. He must have assumed that tonight was a night for laying yourself bare, the world said it was so, and he had taken note and was expecting the same of me. He was right to do so, and I spoke only the truth.

  — Well, then we better start soon.

  Just then Zombie ran up to us, completely worked up.

  — Where the hell were you guys?

  The others materialized as well: Pūpols, Tonijs, Artūriņš, Čurka, Mele, her friend, Sammie, Ģirtiņš, DJ, a couple of metalheads I hadn’t seen before and a pregnant girl.

  Zombie shouted:

  — Let’s go dance!

  But someone shushed him:

  — Fuck, man, shh!

  We all headed towards the road. The open-air stage was quiet. As we climbed up the embankment I asked:

  — Where are we going?

  And some unidentifiable voice replied: Home.

  Home was on the other side of both rivers. Someone was standing on the opposite side of the road, and called out quietly to us:

  — Where are you going you idiots? They’re already waiting for you.

  To myself I thought, well sure, someone’s definitely waiting for us at home. Sammie called back loudly and with pride:

  — There’s thirteen of us!

  It was definitely a sight to see when the thirteen of us showed up at the end of the bridge. Then I think we were spotted, and shadows started to move on the bridge — about thirty of them.

  Our procession came to a standstill and someone, maybe Tonijs, asked:

  — How many of them are there?

  — More than us.

  — But we have Pūpols, our budding pussywillow.

  That, of course, came from Zombie, who was always cracking jokes.

  No-one laughed.

  — What should we do?

  — We’re not going to make it across!

  — They’ll throw us into the river.

  — But then what should we do?

  The shadows were lining up diagonally across the bridge; every shadow had a smooth head and flowing legs (because they wore trackpants!), but I didn’t care. I had already decided to just go along with what everyone else was going to do; I could cross the bridge, I could get thrown into the river; I could stay right here, in the silent open-air stage.