Henry Rollins

After witnessing a Bad Brains concert, it's certainly not easy to go back to working as a shop clerk. Especially if the clerk in question is a certain Henry Rollins. The obvious move, instead, is to say screw it all, leave native Washington D.C. behind, and rush like a madman to see what's happening out in Los Angeles. Now, do you have any idea what Los Angeles was like between the late '70s and early '80s? Right. Hardcore was raging, and so was violence. Not to mention alienation? Henry would have fallen in love with that city right away... And he'd be richly rewarded for it, loved and revered as he lent his voice (or rather, his screams) to Greg Ginn's devastating Black Flag (ring a bell, "Damaged"?). He'd do it for about five years, and he'd do it in style. Yet Henry was a shy guy, torn apart by terrible inner torments (a difficult childhood, as they say...). Between the animalistic, perverse frontman who wreaked havoc on stages across half of America and the timid kid he carried inside, there was a chasm; and a rather deep one at that. This gap caused him no shortage of problems. He needed space. The beast gnawing at his brain and grinding down his soul needed to surface once and for all. So, Black Flag could go to hell! A bit of rest wouldn't hurt. Then again, there were still the spoken-word performances to keep attention on him. But loneliness is hardly good company. Especially when you're used to seeing people willing to break their bones just to leap around like maniacs while screaming at the top of their lungs the songs that made you a living legend.

As they say: a friend is a treasure. One of Henry's best was a certain Chris Haskett, holed up in Leeds (England) doing God knows what. Many say playing guitar. Between one beer and the next, the two of them, along with drummer Mick Green and bassist Bernie Wandell, put together quite a bit of tough material. The sessions are on fire. Henry seems reborn. The ghosts start getting kicked in the ass. No mercy. But you can't just fool around forever; you also need a certain professionalism. So it's decided that it's time for the world to know Henry is back, and even angrier than before.

"Hot Animal Machine", recorded in 1986 and released in early the following year, is an atomic bomb, an unbridled orgy in which rock'n'roll mates with psychedelia and surrenders to the abuses of hardcore. In short: quite the listen...

Terrifying: that's the right word for it. How else would you describe the brutal assault of "Black And White"? Supersonic rock'n'roll complete with a raped guitar and a pounding drum beat. "Followed Around" is pure chaos: a voice like a punch in the face, searing guitar, static and sinister digressions, repeated lysergic explosions. The abrasive, showy boogie of "Lost And Found" pours out of the speakers like pure joy. The guitar is a lava torrent rushing impetuously downhill. The tumultuous voodoobilly of "There's A Man Outside" is scarred by prodigious psychedelic drifts. Strings stretched to the breaking point. Fractured chords. If anyone had any doubts about Haskett's greatness, well, God forgive them. The cover of "Crazy Lover" (thanks, Chuck Berry!) gets gutted their own way. It's the least (ahem...) original track on the record, though as usual, they take no prisoners.

The crackling rhythm of "A Man And A Woman" temporarily calms things down. Henry's deviant logorrhea circles insistently over the lashes of the six-string. The brash, unruly heavy metal of "Hot Animal Machine 1" returns to the path of outrage. The collision between the lyrics and the musical structure is frighteningly effective. These psychodramas of the punk era permanently invade the shadow zones of the psyche. Rollins' is an extraordinary psychoanalytic operation, one that turns music ("his" music) into the prime vehicle for his anguish (and, by extension, that of an entire generation). The cover of "Ghost Rider" (Suicide were so great!) is a rampaging steamroller. That voice is too sure of itself. It's the voice of someone with no time to waste. More verbose and brazen than ever, Rollins delivers a superb acid-drenched version of the Velvet Underground's "Move Right In". Hats off to the former shop clerk; hats off to Haskett; hats off to his blazing guitar; hats off to this gang of dirty bastards...

The delirious vision of "Hot Animal Machine 2", with sudden napalm-fueled hard-rock lashes, plunges into a monstrous psychedelic nightmare, driven to the brink of total collapse by a demonic guitar spiral, caught up in a deformed, chemical ecstasy. The flight has flattened out. It no longer looks at the black stars on a full-moon night. It travels backward through the mind, searching for the traumas that turned youth into hell on earth. Where the demons have no face, only the bitter taste of despair... The final cry of this masterpiece of modern rock lies in the schizophrenic screams of "No One". Rollins' soul is on display within a gallery of abnormal hallucinations. He pants like a caged animal, forced to endure the most atrocious tortures. But he doesn't lift a finger to defend himself. He looks pain in the face and swallows foul saliva. His breathing is heavy, packed with life. A throwaway. Like each of our lives: flowers in a dumpster.

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08/11/2006