January 7, 2003

By Kimberly Chun

EVERYONE'S GOT AN opinion about ex-Black Flag vocalist, writer, actor, and spoken word artist Henry Rollins – who's no slouch in the criticism department himself.

Tell a friend you're thinking about interviewing the singer, and he immediately latches onto a recent Howard Stern show with actor Dennis Cole, who accused Rollins of being responsible for the death of Cole's son. Ask some free jazz/noise fans what they think of Rollins's music, and they'll slam his post-Black Flag work. Mention Rollins's upcoming S.F. spoken word appearance to a music writer, and he quickly shoots back, "Didn't he come out of the closet recently?"

Boy, am I a goofball. Here I was, working with a one-dimensional perspective of Rollins as a successful spoken word hit man. The act was convincing. At his last performance in the Bay Area, almost two years ago, the bull-like Rollins was almost shockingly funny, delivering monologues on male bonding, Macy Gray, and doltish presidential candidates with all the subtlety of a blunt instrument.

The guy has clearly transitioned from those Black Flag days, respectfully detaching himself from the bracing thrash and primordial metallic ooze of Greg Ginn and Chuck Dukowski's SoCal punk-prog jams and lunging, like an ever buffer cross between Iggy Pop and Jim Morrison, toward a kind of respectability as the leader of the Rollins Band, a publisher, a writer, and an actor. With more than 20 albums (including the recent Black Flag tribute CD benefiting the West Memphis Three, Rise Above), nine spoken word releases, 12 books (such as the new Unwelcomed Songs: Collected Lyrics 1980-1992), and multiple film and TV appearances on his résumé Rollins just, uh, keeps rolling onward.

This week the 41-year-old vocalist starts a national spoken word tour that will keep him occupied, dissecting "the same things you see on CNN and in traffic" for the next six months, he says. "At this point Democrats and Republicans are just providing amazing grist for my mill, so that's a lot of fun. And then there's good ol' boys like Trent Lott who just serve themselves up to me. I mean, I couldn't have written that stuff better myself."

Washington, D.C., was also the backdrop for an upbringing that naturally triggered Rollins's rigorous work ethic. "My parents were both extremely hard-working professionals. My father was an economist, so he was your water, power, and utility-rates guy," he says. "I don't know exactly how that scene rocked, but it was starched shirts and lots of legal pads and pencils, furiously scribbling away. My mother worked for the U.S. government in different agencies, national education and welfare, health education and planning, trying to get Johnny to learn how to read."

Nowadays, Rollins says his work is inspired by figures such as Lenny Bruce, Mark E. Smith, and Martin Luther King Jr. "The job is to keep sticking your hands into your guts and finding something, and the older you get and the more experiences you have, it's harder to find that thing," he says. "When you're younger and the girl leaves – and they all do – it's a huge thing that's good for at least half an album. Then on the 300th woman – or whatever it is if you're the drummer – it doesn't hit you so hard. You can't write that 'I hate you, bitch' song because you did that when you're 20, and you look back at it, and it's a little embarrassing now. It becomes more of a challenge to paint that picture because things aren't in abundance anymore, and you can't fool yourself, and your words aren't as precious anymore. Now you take one arrow into the field where you used to take 300, because one shot is all you want. So for me it's a sharpening of blades."

That image makes me more likely to blurt, "Don't hurt me, Henry," than to ask the nagging questions I have on the brain, so I waffle until Rollins cuts to the chase.

"You ask anything you want. I love confrontation," he says firmly.

OK, I venture, why has all his music paled in contrast to his Black Flag days? He lays most of the credit at the feet of guitarist Ginn and bassist Dukowski.

What about '70s TV and film actor Dennis Cole and his insinuation that Rollins was involved in the death of his son, Joe Cole, a close friend of the singer? Rollins believes Dennis Cole is "addicted to what dwindling fame he had that was kind of over for him by like '78," among other things.

"What's your other question?" he asks.

Well, I heard a rumor that you've come out.

"Now you got really old operating software," he bellows. "The Henry-is-gay rumor is ... 1995 or '96." Finally he sounds riled and goes on to blame the talk on his short hair, cut physique, and tattoos. "I remember when the Henry-is-gay thing started happening, I asked my press lady, 'Well, what about that ...' And she said, 'Isn't it great!' and I said, 'What's great?' She said, 'No, it's fantastic! It means you're getting famous!' I went, 'What?' She goes, 'Everyone who gets famous is gay for six to eight months.' I said, 'Omigod, that's the funniest shit I've ever heard.'"

Nice to know Rollins can get his jollies once in a while. His work schedule ensures that he doesn't get out a lot, though he did attend the Osbournes's New Year's Eve party, "the fourth party in my entire life that I've ever been to," he says. "It was fun because, you know, huge cash outlay, recognizable rock stars, and women who looked like they had walked out of a Bond film. The people were superfriendly and, uh, the Diet Coke was free."

Which brings us to the obvious solution to the swirl of speculation that surrounds Rollins. Just bring the cameras on and make it a reality-TV tribute to Larry David, called Kill Your Enthusiasm. My mind started to wander, imagining Rollins shouting down SUV drivers who don't signal. Rollins cursing pop-up ads. Rollins typing – enraged.