Shakespeare’s Globe in Prague isn’t quite as grandiose as the one I remember from home: it doesn’t it have the same history attached to it; it’s about five billion times smaller, and it doesn’t actually put on any plays. What it does have to offer, however, is decent enough beer, a well stocked library that panders to the intellectual whims of its cultured clientele, and a permissive atmosphere in which its perfectly acceptable to sit with your obese tabby cat at the bar (so long as its on a leash, apparently). It is tucked away in a narrow and steep cobbled side street in the torturously hilly and little known Vršovice district.
So we were standing outside said pub, myself clasping a glass of red wine I’d accidentally ordered using an 18th century turn of phrase (thanks, Oxford), when two bearded men staggered towards us; one supporting his grey haired friend who could barely stand upright. The older guy, frail, gaunt but with mad bushy hair which gave his physique a lollypop shape, was muttering loudly to himself. They smiled jovially at us as the more sober one led his friend into the bar and dropped him onto a stool. Job done, the friend stumbled past us on the way out; leant into us and spluttered; “I think you know that guy”. Clearly the man’s nuts, I thought. Besides, my mother told me to avoid drunken biker types who carry geriatric hippies around in their free time. I edged away. The man persisted, pointing emphatically at the older man peering vacantly over at us from inside the pub. I was beginning to think one of my flatmates had a long lost, glue sniffing grandfather she’d completely forgotten about. As it turned out; the guy was only the saxophonist of Czechoslovakia’s most notorious dissident band; Plastic People of the Universe.
In case you haven’t heard of them, the Plastic People of the Universe were, and still are, awesome. They were a psychedelic rock band, formed in the late 60s, who were driven underground when the communist regime decided to object to their ‘devil may care’ attitude, ban the band from performing and eventually imprison its members. The response was phenomenal; Vaclav Havel – a dissident playwright and philosopher who later became president after the fall of communism – collected signatures from notable figures in Czechoslovakia in protest. Thus began a resistance movement that was to play quite a role in the eventual collapse of the regime. Vratislav Brabenec joined the band in the 70s, was imprisoned in 1976 for a several months, and was eventually forced to emigrate to Canada, but returned to his home turf in the 1990s. He continues to play with The Plastics to this day. He spends his evenings at his local, calling members of other, younger, bands “grandmother” and being bought beers by gormless, starstruck Czech students from England.
“So, Plastic People of the Universe toppled communism, that’s cool.” I stuttered. (at least I didn’t comment on his haircut, which was the thing I did the last time I met a rock legend.) He blinks, takes a slow gulp of his beer; the foam clings to his long, bedraggled beard. “Of course not”. He shrugs; “It was all going to happen anyway; we just happened to be the band that were sick of the all the bullshit.” “But Plastic People were a political band, right. I mean, you were pretty much the only band in Czechoslovakia that dared to stick it to the man!” He laughs gently, rearranges his dishevelled checkered shirt, and stares at my ear. “We were a rebellious bunch of kids who wanted to do as we pleased. That can’t be said of most musicians at the time. But the music itself wasn’t political.” He pauses, lights a cigarette and adds; “I prefer to call our stuff poetical”. Incidently, Brabenec is also a writer, wrote a great deal of the lyrics for the Plastics, and also has degrees in both Theology and Horticulture.
He’s starting to fade, fails to hear my following questions, his thick rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. A jolt. Out of nowhere, he proffers; “I’m an old man now. I don’t know. I am supposed to go somewhere tomorrow because someone I know has died. But I can’t remember who they were.” He looks up at me, droopy eyes clouded in smoke, and kindly asks, “So who are you, why are you in Prague?” I say my name and that I study Czech. He beams. “That’s great, that’s just wonderful. Everything is wonderful” and his eyes begin to close. I politely excuse myself. We left shortly afterwards; whilst he remained, dozing in that same stool by himself. Every so often, one of the punters would go over to talk to him, ask him a couple of questions, and then retreat back to their table. I don’t know how he got home.
If you want to find out more on the fall of Communism in Czechoslovakia, Sarah recommends Tom Stoppard’s recent play “Rock n’ Roll,” Vaclav Havel’s memoirs, the Czech cult film “…A Bude Hůř”, (“Its Gonna Get Worse”, featuring Brabenec), or a good old-fashioned history book.
