Somewhere up there, reclining on a celestial tobacco cloud, Bill Hicks must cast a rueful eye towards the one-man stand-up multi-gym that is Henry Rollins. The greatest American comic of his generation and a frustrated rock 'n' roller, Hicks died nearly six years ago aged 32. Rollins is 38 and dauntingly alive, dividing his precious time between the hardcore existentialism of his eponymously named Band and these spoken-word hurricanes of mirth.
Like Hicks, the former leader of anti-establishment punks Black Flag excoriates the gross human by-products of modern capitalism, the badly-dressed, badly-fed of middle America. But unlike Bill, Henry's still here and expects to be on the job for as long as he's breathing. Which, seeing as he doesn't smoke or drink and maintains his 285-pound bench-pressing frame in awesome shape, could be a while.
"I don't understand why anyone would poison their body with alcohol or tobacco," he says. "That stuff limits human potential." The response that some mere mortals like to relax once in a while would be wasted on Henry, who obviates the descent of life's dark clouds by never stopping in one place for very long. Tonight's two-hour discourse revolves around the growing pains of this erstwhile macho rock 'n' roll Samurai who inbetween tours, "or rather inbetween wars", would retire to his "tin shack high on a cliff overlooking the abyss" to await his next mission. Now, though, Henry has bought a house, and under the influence of his friend Heidi embarks upon the terrifying task of furnishing it. Ironic self-deprecation doesn't come much sharper, as "Hank Bushido" is transformed into "Pussyboy" by the simple act of looking at soap dishes. "When a man buys a couch he loses a ball!" He mock fulminates. "Buy a soap-holder and you forfeit the first four Black Sabbath albums!" The ultimate irony is that since buying the house in May, he's only been there seven days.
Around these hilarious home-improvement escapades, Rollins digresses feverishly, from seducing an Aryan babe with Al Green albums to insulting Sting. He's a skilled mimic of English accents and mores, wondering why it is that people in London always wander along three-abreast ("while I'm busy trying to get somewhere!"), and offers a credible impression of Lemmy's warts talking. Though gentler than of yore, Rollins' rap still hits harder than most.
