What sets Henry Rollins apart from the other oddballs, in the oddball world of the spoken word, is that he does not prepare his shows, not in the traditional sense anyway. He does not script his stories, he does not memorize gags, he doesn’t use a set list — he barely has a plan. He simply mounts the stage and starts talking.
“It’s like stir fry,” he said over the phone from his office in L.A. “I’m making it in front of you. My CD reflects that. It’s not slick.”
The CD is called, A Rollins in the Wry. It was culled from two (of about eight) shows he did in the spring of 1999 at Cafe Luna in Los Angeles. It is part diary, part sociopolitical satire, part expose, part flatulence, and part caterwaul.
