ROLLINS
(SPOKEN WORD ALBUMS)
***1/4 Our Fathers Who Aren't In Heaven (w/ Lunch, Bajema &
Selby)
***1/2 Big Ugly Mouth
***1/2 Sweatbox
*** Live at McCabes
****3/4 Human Butt
***1/2 The Boxed Life
****1/2 Get in the Van
***1/4 In Conversation
***1/2 Black Coffee Blues
**** Everything
****3/4 Think Tank
****3/4 A Rollins in the Wry
Henry Rollins: the Garrison Keillor of the anarchist crowd. His
improv spoken word shows include shaggy dog stories, true anecdotes,
self-mocking humour and very downbeat poetry. The oddest thing about
his work is how his "stand up routine" includes accidental
flashes of earthy profundity, whereas his tortured death poetry
sometimes strikes me as unintentionally funny. Big Ugly
Mouth and Sweatbox focus on short
stories about how women love to torment men, and fantasies about
kicking David Letterman in the head. The inclusion of tasteless,
overlong jokes about beating-meat-as-a-hobby drags both albums down,
though.
Live at McCabes starts out strong with
anecdotes about police brutality and a disastrous Rollins Band
concert in Yugoslavia, but soon peters out in less involving stories
about a failed love life and a few travel tips (Tip #1: "Leave
your dick at home!")
The crown jewel of his spoken word work is Human Butt,
graced by three perfect (albeit long) shaggy dog stories: "Decorator"
(about a epiphany he received after making a fool of himself at
Heathrow airport.) "Adventures of an Asshole" (hilariously
mortifying wages of sin paid for being "aggressive, belligerent,
hostile.") and the best of all "Donate Your Bodies to
Science, You Fools" (true tales about an eccentric wino who
taught Rollins a valuable lesson.) Best Bit: Haw Haw! Marlboro &
Beef Jerky!
Next up: The Boxed Life, a continuation of
the story threads introduced in Big Ugly Mouth,
Sweatbox and Live at McCabes.
Here he expands on "Sex Ed" with "Strength, Part I";
and tells true stories about his job of killing animals for NIH in
"Strength, Part II." (Now we know why "sees the world
through 'Rats Eyes.'")
After that, came what I call the Downer Trilogy. The fascinating
but humourless Get in the Van recounts in gory,
clinical detail the sordid history of the punk band Black Flag.
Rollins tells horror stories about the cruelties of an endless parade
of angry punks, crooked cops and worthless skinheads. With Black
Coffee Blues, he directs his rage inward, dissecting his
life with a heartless lack of compassion for his own soul. Like a
lust-tainted hermit, he focuses his foreboding, loneliness and desire
into a rambling self-crucifixion.
Everything copies for audio posterity a
lengthy condemnation of everybody and of course, Everything.
Combining an all-inclusive "everyone is scum" vibe even
more intense than Get in the Van with the self
incriminations of Black Coffee Blues, he crafts
a disturbing vision of a paranoid landscape populated by doomed
fuckups. Behind this sinister rant percolates slow guitar jazz and a
thin sheen of traffic noises. Overall, this beatnik buzzkill encites
fear and loathing, and gives 10 good reasons to give up hope.
"Drive-by Shooting? Where?!"
Also floating out there is the friendly In Conversation.
This stores two press conferences he held. It focuses mostly on how
his record companies are run and his experiences on the set of three
movies he was in ("Heat", "The Chase" and "Johnny
Mnemonic.") This portrays him not as a manic-depressive,
self-pity freak or as a goof-off party animal, but as a genuine human
being with many noble qualities.
Even rarer is Our Fathers Who Aren't in Heaven,
which includes spoken word material by Rollins, beat poet Don Bajema,
fringe author Hubert Selby, and -- high on the strangometer -- Lydia
Lunch's recitation of the works of the other three contributors. The
Rollins material is funny but ho hum (except for the aching
self-portrait "I Know You", also available on The
Boxed Life.)
But back to stuff you can get at your local record store. With
Think Tank, Rollins puts out the sharpest,
wittiest record since Human Butt. Apparently,
all the bile has been vented and "our boy Hank" can go back
to one of the things he does best: self-deprecating anecdotes about
how living out of suitcases, wreaking havok with fax machines and
drinking bad water behind the Iron Curtain. The two discs have a
different feel. Disc One is a Denis Leary-like salvo on the rumours
of Homosexuality, the idiocy of airports, and the poorly named El
Nino. Disc Two overflows with funny mea culpas for everything that
goes wrong onstage at a Rollins Band concert, followed by a sad story
of a terminally ill kid in Australia. But right before it gets too
maudlin, he starts playing a mind game with his throat doctors fax
machine.
Rollins completed his transformation from poet to comedian with
the single disc A Rollins in the Wry (Shit! A
Pun for a title!); and he gets to defend his heterosexuality yet
again with a novel use for Black Sabbaths Mob Rules
and more travel tips on what not to do in Israel. ("Don't jump
up and down, Yelling 'FUCK! FUUUCKKK!!' "
― Lord Custos Omicron (Lord Custos Omicron), Monday, 19 January 2004 13:34 (twenty-two years ago)