The Portable Henry Rollins

by Henry Rollins

  September 21. Adelaide, Australia: For some reason they like US here. Last time we were here we played two nights and no one showed up, and this time we sold this big place out completely. Go figure. It was uphill for me. I just stayed out of their way all night. People seemed to get off on what we were doing, or trying to do. A band called The Mark of Cain went on before us; they were great. I was distracted by having to look out for people all night. On the good nights I get to go into my own world and play from in there and play my guts out. Other nights aren’t as good, and all it amounts to is getting through the set as best you can and not getting hit in the head. I am alone in the box and am glad. The questions wear me out. I had to wait for a while to get out of the hall tonight. It was question and autograph time until I went and hid in the back room. After a while I hate the sound of my voice. I hate having to explain myself to people all the time. I’m wearing out piece by piece. I keep writing so perhaps I will have some kind of map to use to retrace the steps if I ever get time to go back and pick up the pieces that are scattered on the side of the highway. Blank.

  September 25. Sydney, Australia: The day Started out in a television studio. I didn’t want to do this shit, but we were doing it anyway. It was Andrew who really wanted to do this. I knew it was going to be the same bullshit as it usually is. If every piece of equipment isn’t exactly what he wants, then he throws a shit fit. He was told that the equipment for the TV show was going to be the best gear they could get, and he said that was okay. I knew that it wasn’t going to be okay. I hate listening to the complaints. Of course there was the prima donna bullshit, no surprises there. “Tearing” three times and “Low Self-Opinion” three times and then on to the hall for sound check, then back to the television studio to do it again as a dress rehearsal and then through it again “for real.” After that, back to the hall, a little before midnight. Stretch for a few minutes and then go out and kick it. Spit, ice cubes, beer, the endless chain of bodies onstage. A guy who would fill up beer cans with water and bring them to the front and cover our equipment with it. Can’t play too hard because that would involve too much concentration and that means taking my eyes off of them for a few seconds and like the ocean, you can’t turn your back on a crowd like this one. I spent the night looking out for the flying beer can or the ice or the punker. At one point I told the people up front that I wished they were all black. I knew that would piss them off, and I was right. Funny as fuck to see them get mad like that. Even with all this lightweight element at the show we still rocked out. I don’t stick around after the last song is over. I get the fuck offstage. I can’t be sure what they will be planning. Maybe that one shithead is waiting to throw his glass right on the last note and there I’d be standing there with a fake-ass grin on my face like a sitting duck waiting to get what I deserved for giving them an inch. So I play and split, make the hit and leave. I learned that this bunch isn’t about music, so I do the trip and get the fuck out. Might be a long time before I come back here again.

  October 3. Osaka, Japan: Tonight was another good playing experience. It feels great to rock hard and not have to think about getting whacked around. Some kids kept flying over the barrier, and as they flipped over, their boot tips would slam against the stage, and if my feet were there they would have been broken by now. Japanese fans are the most intense I have ever encountered anywhere. I did an in-store appearance at Tower today, and it was a heavy experience. People out of breath when they would come to the front. All of their hands were cold and wet when I shook them. They were everywhere even at the train station when I was on an early train I took ahead of the guys to go to Osaka from Nagoya. After the show we went to the van and they were there and there was one guy crying and telling me he loved me. Tonight they were in the hotel lobby as well. I took the stairs, twelve flights, just so I wouldn’t have to wait for the elevator and get told that someone is sorry again. They always say they’re sorry when they want your autograph and picture. They were in the lobby of the hotel when I got there this morning. It would be too crazy if you were in a big band and came here. Imagine someone like David Bowie or Prince—insane. After the set we went and ate food in a restaurant where you take your shoes off and sit at a low table and the ladies come out with the robes on and all. It was great. If I had a real room to live in, that’s what it would look like. I got a good workout in today. When I got to the gym they wouldn’t let me in because I had tattoos and they had some problem with my shoes. They had a discussion about it, and they gave me a sweatshirt and some shoes that they had around. Some gym. These guys would shit themselves if they went to a gym in America. In the gym here there were no weights that were heavy. I was doing shrugs with a couple of hundred pounds to warm up, and I looked behind me and all the people had stopped and were staring at me. One guy came over with a calculator and showed me exactly how many pounds I was lifting. No one made a sound except me. They looked at me like I was some kind of monster. Honestly it felt good. The gym is the only place where I feel totally at home. People in a room sweating, lifting up shit and making animal sounds. I don’t have to apologize for the way I am. I don’t have to be nice to fragile people. It’s the only place where I feel natural. I like working out better than sex; it’s only second to music. Right before we went on, this strange thing happened. I had bought a Jane’s Addiction bootleg CD in the store underneath the club, and I had the DJ put it on. I was standing in the hall and the CD came on. At first it was just the sound of a huge Jane’s audience waiting to see the band. The bass line for “Up the Beach” came on, and the crowd went nuts. Every time I ever saw them that’s the tune they opened up with. For a split second I thought I was at Lollapalooza. It was an intense flashback. It only lasted a fraction of a second, but it was intense. I’ll have to tell those guys about it if I ever see any of them again.

  October 10. Honolulu, HI: I go to the toilet and they come in and start the talking. We’re in a toilet and I have to answer questions. I am a fucking idiot for being in a place where this can happen to me. They yell, we play, what the fuck. I had a great time tonight. They threw ice and yelled the stupidest shit I have ever heard, but they stayed off-stage and that was great. The guys always want to touch me. After the show they find their way backstage and put their arm around me. A woman keeps patting me on the back, and she tells me that from what she heard me say tonight she thinks I would be an interesting person to talk to. I just stare at her until she leaves. What did I say tonight? I asked if there was a difference in the smell of rape and normal sex. That I didn’t want to unite with anyone because humans smell like blood and brains. I am the Death Star, and everything that comes out of my mouth is from darkness.

  October 25. Tucson, AZ: I don’t know if they know. The sun sets and I sit outside waiting for the sound check to start. Small groups of youths come up to me and stand around like I am some museum piece or wall hanging. One will speak and I will stare and use one-word answers. One by one they will go away wordlessly. I don’t know if they know. Pain is the only thing that will tell you the truth about yourself and the rest of them. The pain shot through my body like electricity tonight. After the show I sat in a puddle of my sweat on the floor of the arena. People looked over the barrier and yelled shit I couldn’t understand. I felt like a boxer. I don’t care what they yell. I’m just an animal. Just meat, experienced meat. They don’t know that underneath my skin the pain is screaming the truth to me. So loud that it shuts out anything that they are yelling. Pain is my friend because it has never lied to me. It never leaves me for long. When pain is with me everything becomes clear and life has meaning. I know something about myself. I see deeper. Pain makes me stronger. Fire fills my body. After I get dressed I walk out and talk to people from some radio station. They are alien to me. Pain is the great isolator, the almighty truth teller. Fuck spirituality. It’s all in the flesh and how much you can take. You want to transcend? Burn.

  October 31- Indianapolis, IN: Happy Halloween. The crowd looked the same
as always. Kicked it as hard as I could. Now I am the hole. After the show I sat shivering in a corner and shook my head no when they came to interrogate me. They take and take. They can’t get me all the way. You finish playing your guts out and you’re sitting there steaming and they will come up immediately and start in with the questions. I get sick of my mouth. I get sick of answering endless questions, some nights it’s all I do. Scratch, pry, dig, scrape. Sign this. Wring his bones until there’s no juice left. No. You won’t get me. The radio guy comes out of nowhere and tells me he has some people he wants me to meet. I tell him that after shows all I want to do is kill people. He goes away. They have no idea. You work with people for years and they have no idea what’s going on with you. You just go on talking hoping that somewhere someone gets it halfway the way you meant it. Wince when they don’t, run and cover when they do. Some Nation of Islam guys were here tonight. They were an intense crew to say the least. Immaculately dressed with bow ties and full-length leather coats.

  November 1. Chicago, IL: We get to the venue and there are kids outside waiting for something. There are no tickets and they stand there in the pissing rain all day. Hours later sound check starts. Tonight they’re up close and they throw Oh Henry candy bars and tell us that we suck. We play hard and I can’t tell what they’re saying. The bass player pulls one of his infant attitude trips for the encore, and no one kills him. That’s it. It’s a good thing that I do this for myself because if I were an entertainer I would be looking for their approval. How fucked up is that. They would hand me my head. Steve Albini is at the show tonight hanging out with the opening band I guess. I never met the guy before but once read an article he wrote that put me down. I am considering breaking his face up for him, but when I move in on him I see that he’s just a skinny punk. It wouldn’t have been a good kill, so I let it slide. He’ll never know how close he came to getting his face fucked up in front of his friends. After the show is over I leave the venue to get some food before we leave for Toronto. People are outside waiting in bad weather. I sign whatever they got and do my best to be nice to these people knowing they have no idea how much I want to puke my lungs out of my body when I get asked to sign an autograph. I go to the restaurant up the street, and people put pieces of paper in my face as I’m eating. I get on the bus and we leave.

  November 10. Raleigh, NC: Played hard as possible. Ran out of time before we got to finish. Showered and got out of there. I don’t know what else happened, been playing hard to the point to where it blasts out the rest of the thoughts that I have. After the show was over I sat on the bus and waited to leave. People looked inside for a long time. I felt like I was living on display. It was good to leave. I am falling apart in some ways.

  November 19. Dallas, TX: It rained all day, and I watched the men load the gear into a fucked-up old wrestling arena. I sat in the bleachers and thought about how many times people had sat there and yelled for one redneck to rip the head off another redneck. Water was coming in through the roof. There was a hole in the floor right in front of the stage. A girl I know came early to talk to me, and I was lame and had little to say. I felt like a jerk sitting there not being able to say anything. I don’t get along with people as well as I used to, it’s like I have turned into another person. Right after Cypress Hill finished, the barricade was broken almost immediately. Great to see it handed piece by piece across the front of the stage. After a long time and a lot of people onstage talking to the crowd telling them to get back we finally got to play. Our set was cut to forty-five minutes. We pulled off a few songs and did the best we could to get the crowd to be cool. It was like one of our regular shows, people all over the place. Other than that it was a good night. The Beasties were great as usual—it’s great to see them every night. I didn’t have to talk to too many people after the show, and that made things pretty easy to deal with. I find it hard to say thank you over and over. It makes me want to rip my lungs out.

  November 25. San Francisco, CA: They threw large plastic containers of pepper, garlic, you name it. There were about four spices thrown up there all in all. Missed my head a few times close. I caught one. I spent the gig watching the crowd, inhaling pepper and waiting for the next projectile. I got hit in the head with a coin. Good shot. Tried to play with all I had but couldn’t because of a few pieces of shit in the audience. Play all year and it comes down to your last show and they shit on you all the way. It would be nice to have a way to shit right back on them. It would have been so great to have found the guy, imagine the hospital bill. So like Iggy once said, “You’re paying five dollars and I’m making ten thousand, so screw ya.” I hopped a ride with the crew bus and wound up at the airport in LA. We saw Ray Charles, it was cool. He was being led by this guy. They were walking real fast. I took a cab to my room. Sure was a good year for playing. It was great playing with the Beastie Boys and Cypress Hill. I wish we were playing tonight. I don’t know what I’ll do with myself.

  September 11, 1981. Devonshire Downs, CA: I learned what hard work was with Black Flag. I thought I had worked my ass off before doing minimum-wage work. For this show we put up flyers for days on end. Start in the morning and come back at sundown. One day Greg and I went out to put some up on telephone poles around La Cienega and Sunset Boulevard. We were across the street from the 7-Eleven on La Cienega between Santa Monica and Sunset. Greg was telling me about the pigs in the area and how the last thing you wanted was to get caught. Right after he said that, we got nailed. The pig gave us so much shit. For some reason he let us go.

  I ended up going out on flyer patrol with Mugger. We would make a combination of white glue and wheat paste. One guy on lookout, one guy slapping up the paste. One layer on the pole, put the flyer on, and then another coat of paste. After that all you had to do was let the sun do the work. These flyers would stay for up to a year. You couldn’t get them off. We would pick a main street and put up flyers for miles. We went to UCLA, the Valley, everywhere. This was just for one gig.

  One day we were putting up flyers in Hollywood and we walked through a supermarket parking lot. We saw this guy putting his groceries into a gray Mercedes. Someone had spray-painted a big swastika on the guy’s hood. I just kind of stared at it. Mugger went off and started laughing his ass off. The man shook his fist at us and drove away. Mugger and I had no hair on our heads. He probably thought we were skinheads getting off on the artwork.

  I learned a lot from Mugger. We went flyering up around West-wood. We were hungry all the time and never had much money besides bus fare. We went to a Carl’s Jr. and each got a small salad plate. The place had one of those deals where you get to fill the plate but you don’t get to go back for seconds. I followed Mugger’s lead. He put the plate on the tray and proceeded to make the entire tray into his salad plate. It was a mountain of food. Awesome. I did the same. The manager saw us and he didn’t like it, but I could see immediately that he wasn’t going to do shit about it. We were too fucked-up-looking. Covered with paste and dirt and sunburnt. Our bucket of paste and backpack of supplies. Forget it, not worth it. I learned that you can get away with a lot of shit if you just do it like it’s all you knew how to do. Mugger told me about times he was living on the streets and was reduced to eating dog food out of cans put on white bread. He said you balled it up and ate it as fast as you could and tried not to taste it. All this was new to me.

  Finally the gig came. I hoped all the flyering was worth it. It was a great bill. Fear, the Stains, and Black Flag. I can’t remember who was onstage at the time, but at one point someone shot tear gas or Mace into the crowd. People were on the ground holding their faces and screaming. I carried a few people to the bathroom and got them under the sink. Finally we got to play. A few songs in I looked out and saw this brown shape in front of me. I was thinking to myself how strange it looked and what was it doing suspended in the air like that. A one-quart Budweiser bottle bounced off my hand and went under the drum riser. Tough crowd. The PA company normally did country and weste
rn gigs. There was no way they were ready for this audience. I broke one mic and went to get another one. The PA man gave me one and gave me a look. A kid landed on one of the monitors and stomped on it on his way offstage. The PA man came out and started yelling at the crowd and looking over his monitor. He was immediately showered in oaths, spit, and cups. He looked at me and said he was going to turn off the PA. Chuck told him that his PA would be destroyed and he would get his ass kicked by the crowd. All this was true. He looked at us and called us every name in the book and went back behind the monitor board and remained there glaring at us for the rest of the gig.

  In the fall of 1981 we recorded the Damaged album. The building where we did the sessions is now gone.

  The guys did the songs without me and I did the vocals later on. It was amazing to watch Ginn in the studio. He was relentless. So much energy. He would tape the headphones to his head for overdubs so they wouldn’t fly off. Robo always wore these bracelets on his left wrist, and the drum mies would pick them up. It became part of the sound. You can hear it on the record.

  Chuck and Greg coached me on the vocals. I needed all the help I could get. I would sing as hard as I could every time. I didn’t know anything about pacing myself. Chuck walked me through the breakdown section in the song “What I See”; I couldn’t come up with anything. It must have been funny to see me work hard instead of smart. We did a version of “Louie Louie” that was never used. The guys did a strange jam at the end of it until the tape ran out. I heard it back once and never heard it again. I don’t think it was even mixed down. I did the vocal for “Damaged I” in two takes. It was just me winging it like I did it live. After the second take Spot told me the first one was the one and I was finished. We used a different version of “Rise Above” than the one we recorded for the album. Several weeks before we went into the studio to record what was going to be a single. “Depression” and “Rise Above” were the two songs. We never released the single. I guess Greg liked the version from this session better, so we used it.