Henry Rollins at RIT, NY, 11/03/01 Photo by Bill Ribas © 2001 NY Rock

The gymnasium is packed with about a thousand or so kids, the typical assortment of college types. There is a faint whiff of clove cigarettes in the air, but for the most part, it's all cleanliness and niceties. I keep thinking how none of these people were even alive when Rollins and Black Flag pummeled their way around the planet in the early eighties, and am curious as to how they know the man. But as he steps onstage, gilded in a black silk shirt, black pleated pants, black shoes, the crowd erupts with applause. They know him, all right, but noticing the gray flecks in his short hair, I keep thinking he's old enough to be their dad.

As Rollins begins talking, I watch as he wraps the mike cord around his hand several times, probably a habit from the old days, slipping the loops around his fingers as easily as brass knuckles would slide on. For Henry, the microphone has become his weapon of choice, his means of deliverance. He tells the crowd he loves to travel; it pumps him up, gets him energized. He's been around the globe twice since February, from "LA to LA" as he puts it. He is sick of seeing films with Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant, and he's just warming up. He looks to the translator for the deaf standing to his left, and says "by the time I'm done here that poor lady will have said 'fuck' so many times..." and the crowd loves it, and there's nothing mean spirited about the comment. For Rollins is all about truth, honesty, sticking to his guns.

Henry Rollins at RIT, NY, 11/03/01 Photo by Bill Ribas © 2001 NY Rock

He wavers a bit in the first 20 minutes, and some of the material, though interesting, sounds a bit forced, unpolished standup comedy, but I have faith in him. Part of the effect of seeing Rollins live is experiencing his energy. He doesn't halt for more than a second or two, not even to grab a water bottle to change subjects. There are no noticeable dramatic pauses. When he picks up the mike, it's akin to opening one of those cheap cans of peanuts where the snakes explode out of them. He simply doesn't stop, and you don't want him to.

He rails against the multitude of SUVs in LA, where there are no falling trees, mudslides, or any storms that would warrant such a vehicle, and describes the typical driver behind the wheel, usually blonde, preoccupied with some task that doesn't include driving, and when the light changes, nothing happens. East Coasters, those from NYC or DC are always in a hurry, and Rollins is one of those people. His solution? A five-second grace period before he blares Slayer at ungodly decibels, his leering, angry mug menacing from behind his windshield, bubbling invectives. This, he says, is the way to drive.

It would be easy to tell portions of his performance: his audition for Danny DeVito, his tales of turning 40, his travels in India and seeing people cremated, the differences between men and women, etc. Though the observations are funny and make sense even while stated out of context, you miss the impact of the show. For throughout, Rollins weaves parts of stories together, brings in elements from other tales and sheds new light on a particular subject. He'll bounce off at a moment's notice on some tangent, going way off base just to make a minute point before bringing it all back together. To experience him live is almost like hearing pure consciousness, a rambling, interweaving of subject matters that in some grand way are all connected.

He can be powerful and forceful on stage, screaming profanities into the mike. He can be blunt, but behind it all is such a thirst for knowledge and information. Rollins stated at one point, "I urge you to immerse yourself in culture you have to pursue." For Rollins, the effort is the electricity. He knows there is way too much out there for one person to know, but that doesn't stop him from going out into the world and experiencing it. It is this charge that comes through to the audience, an unrelenting blast of nearly three hours, of stories that come and go and come back, of humor that is universal, tales of the human experience. And in his touching finale, he described his short-lived wrestling career, how he knew, as his face was stuck in the crotch of a wrestler who had him pinned, that "wrestling is not for me. I'm going to go home, and wait and wait and wait and wait and wait for the Ramones to appear." And on that note, he left the stage, soon to jet somewhere else.

As I dragged my ass back to the car and headed home, the cool night air keeping me awake for the ride, the college radio station was playing what sounded like Slayer. I cranked the volume till my ears hurt, watched the moon in the distance, and thought how good life is.