“I really dig this writer Henry Miller, and in his book ‘The Air-Conditioned Nightmare’ there’s this line-I’m paraphrasing-’We don’t talk to one another these days. “I’ve been trying to figure out why I go around and do this,” he says. He hands a large bottle of Perrier to a young woman and urges her to pass it around the room. Rollins beckons the stragglers in the back to come sit on the floor in front, campfire-style. There’s enough steel in the toes of his shoes to send airport metal detectors shrieking.
Images of bats, skulls and snakes creep up his biceps beneath the black T-shirt, a brilliant sun is tattooed across his back, under the words Search and destroy. band Black Flag is a study in black: closely cropped black hair, dark X-ray eyes, baggy black clothes. The former lead singer of the hard-core L.A.
One ardent fan calls out as Rollins passes by: The crowd of about 200 is an unlikely combination of neatly dressed college students, bohemian hipsters, bearded biker types and a few mohawk-crested punks. It is a stormy Saturday night in Denver, the last stop on Rollins’ three-week, coast-to-coast “spoken word” tour before his return to Los Angeles. Henry Rollins walks briskly to the front of the small church, a blur of muscle and tattoos.
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