March 9, 2004

Addiction

CHARLOTTE, N.C. – Rollins killed last Tuesday. His form was rare.

The Tremont Music Theater on Charlotte’s south side was dank. Indie band bumper stickers decorated the columns in the center of the dimly lit room. Fluorescents, bare of fixture, cast a yellowish green tint on the malcontents assembled to hear Henry Rollins.

Merely 30 deep in queue, I managed to snag a seat front row center. This time, if he deserved it, I could spit at him…and hit him right between the eyes.

It was odd when I heard a Zippo clink behind me followed by a hint, then waft of cigarette smoke flow through my hair. Yeah, everyone was smoking. It’s North Carolina, they grow tobacco here. By the end of the night, I smelled like the cigar bars I can’t freakin’ stand but once in a blue moon.

I went alone, again. Hank is a self-proclaimed, no-bullshit East Coaster who has a low tolerance for crap. No one in Columbia, I think, would be able to take this guy’s rant. They might agree with it, but it’s pretty blunt. And just like watching some Kung Fu movie, one feels they should quickly dispense this brand of denunciation immediately following the show.

The routine was similar to that of the West Palm Beach show. The stuff was still pretty fresh. A tweak here, trim there, and it seemed somewhat streamlined.

But by streamlining he left out some of the little gems he’d talked about earlier in the tour that rounded out his spew. His whole six-year love affair with Sheryl Crow was nipped to a brief mention somewhere in the bit about the two strange phone calls. Suffice it to say I won’t go into detail here because you should go see the show, but the message was far more important in this show than the journey to it.

What’s worse is that there were no beautiful women sitting next to me who came alone to see the show. Although the 25-year-old girl behind me tapped me on the shoulder asking if I’d just seen the show in Asheville two nights before. She’d picked up on the brief conversation I’d had with the couple next to me about the show at the Carefree. We chatted for a while, picking up people who sat beside both of us along the way, all about Rollins’ rants.

“He’s my hero,” a guy one to my left said.

Hero. There’s a word for you. Rollins does tell it like he sees it, and he makes no excuses or apologies, but I’m not sure that’s heroic. What’s more is that I think Rollins would agree with me, and he’d try and milk that level of modesty in an attempt to get girls to substitute for his – and I am not making this up – “cum-stained futon.”

Either way, the show was great. It was a welcomed departure from everything Carolina. The 80-mile drive was worth it, just as the 60-mile drive was at the end of January. I just wish that girl were there next to me again. Boy did I screw that up.

- Rich