Rollins Band

Rollins_Band · February 2, 2000, 1:04am

Listen to the new metal band Rollins Band Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band
Rollins Band Rollins Band

Drain_Bead · February 2, 2000, 1:13am

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I wonder if I got my point across…

“Buffalo Bills? Oh, yeah. The guys that always snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.” --WallyM7

Drain_Bead · February 2, 2000, 1:14am

Oh, and Rollins Band is nowhere near new.

Bricker · February 2, 2000, 1:16am

No, no. I’m convinced.

Rollins Band. They rock.

Wow. All it took was lots of lines on a web page. Who knew it would be this easy?

John_Corrado · February 2, 2000, 1:25am

I dunno… what was your point?

JMCJ

This is not a sig.

neuro-trash_grrrl · February 2, 2000, 2:53am

Wow, some individual shows up, posts exactly once in a most obnoxious manner, then leaves. This thread deserves no comment. No comment, no comment, no comment, no comment, etc.

An infinite number of rednecks in an infinite number of pickup trucks shooting an infinite number of shotguns at an infinite number of road signs will eventually produce all the world’s great works of literature in Braille.

Satan · February 2, 2000, 2:55am

For the record, I used to like Henry, but he’s pretty lame since he changed his whole damn rhythm section.

His spoken word stuff is pretty funny though…

Yer pal,
Satan

ruadh · February 2, 2000, 3:09am

He used to come in to Tower when I worked there. He would go over to the R section and put all his CDs on display.

Drain_Bead · February 2, 2000, 3:10am

Why you little…

John_Corrado · February 2, 2000, 3:11am

… whereupon I was slapped so hard, my tongue nearly flew out of my cheek…

mouthbreather · February 2, 2000, 3:12am

“New Metal band Rollins Band”???

20 buckas says this kid has never even heard of Black Flag. Anyone wanna take me up on that?

crackwise · February 2, 2000, 4:18am

Guaranteed.

Never give a sword to a man who can’t dance.
– a Celtic motto

Sylence · February 2, 2000, 4:59am

ALL I HAVE TO SAY ABOUT ROLLINS BAND IS THAT THEY ARE REALLY REALLY LOUD.
– Sylence

If a bird doesn’t sing, I’ll wait until it sings.

Tokugawa Ieyasu

Satan · February 2, 2000, 9:17am

Black Flag?

Shit, boys… I go back to when he was known as Henry Garfield and he sang with a DCHC band called S.O.A. in the very early '80s.

Check out the seminal Flex Your Head Dischord compilation for a few tracks. Mine’s on vinyl, of course…

chanting My dad can beat up your dad! My dad can beat up your dad!

Yer pal,
Satan

Coldfire · February 2, 2000, 12:03pm

And for a REAL laugh, you might wanna check out his homepage: http://www.hip.as/ready

Beware: his eloquence will strike you dead.

Coldfire

"You know how complex women are"

Neil Peart, Rush (1993)

BunnyGirl · February 2, 2000, 2:18pm

Madame Bunny is sensing…is sensing…there is a strange smell…there are sounds…yes…yes…now it’s coming to me
.
.
.
.
IT’S HIGH SCHOOL!

ruadh · February 2, 2000, 2:58pm

Ha. I actually had the No Policy EP. Sold it though (for a LOT more than I paid for it ;))

Ike_Witt · February 2, 2000, 4:55pm

Give the kid a break. He might be young and might not have a clue, but at least he posted this in the right place.

Flypsyde · February 2, 2000, 5:02pm

Satan, I loved the one with Paul the bum.

“We called him Paul, Crazy Paul, or Sky King.”

We interrupt this thread to increase
dramatic tension.

Satan · February 3, 2000, 6:48am

Speaking of Henry Rollins, the fine folks at *Motorbooty* magazine did a wonderful story about an Ann Arbor punk-rock groupie’s expose, a parody of Pamela Des Barnes, only with a lotta punk and indie rock in-jokes. This was what got mentioned about Henry…

Giving Henry A Bath

Then I entered my flannel phase. First it was Dave “Lawn Boy” Pirner of Soul Asylum who mowed me over with his downhome charm and a widdler that just wouldn’t quit. I’d never seen one shaped like an Allen wrench before. Grant Hart of Husker Du came next, a big, burly, bundle of joy who introduced me to white powders and his boyfriend Ivan, who I later wooed away. Then I moved on to those wacky Replacements. First impish Tommy Stinson, an altar-boy with dirty underwear, and then at the next show his brother Bob, who while not nearly as good looking, sure had good drugs. I’ve always found that brothers share similar love-making techniques, and this time was no exception. Despite his balding pate, pasty complexion, and his funny desire to try on my underthings, Bob was as good a lover as anyone in Minneapolis of his weight and age. He bought for me too.

But something about those beer-guzzling lumberjacks left me high and dry. They were fun-lovin’ for sure, but dates spent playing pinball only do so much for a gal. What I needed was a real man, not just greasy kid stuff. Lucky for me Black Flag was coming to town. I had always liked Black Flag. Their music is so . . . physical, but even more muscular than their music was their lead loin, Henry. When I first saw him glistening with sweat in his Speedos, my woman’s intuition told me that beneath his body by Atlas was a mind by Socrates. Swinging the mike cord like the Johnny Weismuller of punk, his animal magnetism was more than enough to make any girl want to tear off her panties and hurl them stageward. I know I did. Right then and there I swore I’d be the Jane to his Tarzan.

Maybe I should have guessed that something was amiss, though, when my undies stuck to his chest like he was a human No-Pest Strip. Could it have been more than just smoldering sexuality that emanated from his body? Clutching my lucky scarf (that Nikki Sudden gave me!!!) I approached him cautiously after the show, half from his intimidating monobrow, and half from the curious odor which seemed mysteriously to follow him wherever he went. Quivering nervously, I stepped in his path and uttered a meek “Hi.” He put me right at ease by quickly responding, “Call me Henry. My parents did.” My offer to show him around the late-night sights of Ann Arbor piqued the interest of the intellectual explorer in him. “I’ve always wanted to see Ann Arbor. People are always comparing me to a guy from here who I’m much cooler than.” I assumed he meant Iggy Pop, but he later told me he meant Henry Miller. (I didn’t correct him then, but he must have been referring to Arthur Miller. A mistake anyone could make, I guess.)

We walked the starry a.m. streets together, talking about life after death, Machiavellian lust for power in the songs of early Teardrop Explodes, and postmodern magic realism. Or rather, he did the talking: I could barely get a word in edgewise. We stopped in to the Cloverleaf Diner, my favorite all-night bohemian coffee joint, where Henry was quick to whip out a notebook to record the thoughts he had uttered during our walk. “That stuff was too valuable just to waste in conversation,” he muttered as he scribbled furiously. In between belts of black coffee, he would look up at me with an intense grimace, eyes ablaze with inspiration as his hand struggled to keep up with the rapid-fire profundity of his mind. Then he spoke. “Listen to this. It’s called ‘Ann Arbor – 3:14 AM’: ‘The trees swayed like hippies, in the Vietnam of urban renewal.’” Then he plunged back into his prose. When I’d try to make love talk with him, he’d snap, “Shhhh, I’m creating,” but he still had time to turn and talk shop with the 777 Guy. “Street people are the true poets of this society,” he said sagely. When his notebook was full, he grabbed a couple menus to inscribe his wisdom upon, but seeing the sun coming up out of the corner of my eye, I snapped up a handful of napkins for him and said, “You can finish at my place.” I was almost too tired to walk, so we hailed a taxi for home.

As we drove through the rays of the rising sun, I noticed again that scent that had annoyed me at the show. The smell intensified when he arrived back at my place, so I guess it wasn’t the bottle guys or the cab driver after all. In fact, the aroma – a strange cross between puppy sweaters and burnt coffee – was coming from Henry himself. I hoped that it was just his clothes that were foul-smelling, but as I peeled them off, I discovered to my dismay that they were just a saving grace for the stench that lay beneath. I guess that “soap” was not a word in his voluminous vocabulary. I still wanted to run my tongue all over his well-toned anatomy, but only after it had been well-washed. With his skivvies out of the way, just one thing stood between me and the seventh level of heaven: his personal hygiene. I wasn’t about to let something as easily scrubbable as that get in the way of boundless ecstasy. “Let’s take a bath,” I cooed.

As I ran water into the tub and added the last drops of my Mr. Bubble, Henry continued to speak about all of his close personal friends in the literary world. “Just read with Selby last week,” he revealed. “Out of sympathy, I opened up for the old coot. He’s really into my stuff, and thinks I’m the new him. But I know I’m way better.” I readily agreed, motioning him into the tub. As I soaped his strong shoulders, he reminisced about pheasant hunting with William Burroughs. “Not only am I a better writer, but I’m a much better shot. That old sword-swallower, doesn’t he know homos can’t hunt? He peaked with Junky. I whomped his wrinkly ass with Polio Flesh, and my new book that’s coming out, Your Arms Too Short to Jack Off God, will kick that fucker into an old folks home, no prob.” From under the suds came his opinions of Georges Bataille, Louis-Ferdinand Celine, and Alain Robbe-Grillet. “Those frogs may not be circumcised, but they sure can put pen to paper.” I just nodded and kept scrubbing as he continued. “That William Gibson guy may be some kind of sci-fi bad ass, but he’d be a whole fuck of a lot cooler if he had tattoos like me. What a geek. Looks like he’s in R.E.M. or somethin’. ‘Cyberpunk.’ I made that up. It was in the chorus to ‘Damaged XII,’ we just never recorded it.” By this point he was beginning to smell like a spring afternoon, and I was hoping he’d turn his attention to affairs of the flesh, if not the heart, but he kept going on about his special place on the outskirts of society. “You gotta reinvent yourself,” he said, “you gotta kill your parents. If not literally, then certainly figuratively. That’s why I changed my name to ‘Rollins.’ I didn’t want nothin’ to do with my parents’ world. Fuckin’ ‘Garfield’ sounds like a cat. When you’re an outlaw like me, you live by your own rules.”

After what seemed like hours of all chatter, no kisses, I finally got down to a layer of pink skin as the clock chimed 10 a.m. “Hey, stores are open,” he shouted. “Let’s go buy some books!” Yawning, I declined. “Let’s go to bed,” I offered. “‘The woods are lovely, dark and deep,’” he recited. “‘and I have many miles to go before I sleep,’ so I’m bailing. Thanks for the bath.” After all those hours of anticipation. I’ll admit it was a disappointment when he left without even a quickie, but I wouldn’t trade my evening with the Rimbaud of hardcore for all the sin in San Francisco. I’ll never wash my tub again.

Except from “I’ve Been With The Band”

Yer pal,
Satan