Henry Rollins, Exene Cervenka and Others

The Vic Theatre, Chicago, Illinois, June 16, 1996

By Tim W. Brown

Despite a Bulls’ championship game attracting the eyes and ears of the entire city, a poetry

reading succeeded in filling Chicago’s Vic Theatre on Sunday, June 16. Headlined by Henry

Rollins, the event was sponsored by Rollins’ publisher, 2.13.61, in town plugging its wares at the

American Booksellers Association annual convention. The show needed trimminga fifteen-

minute break between each of five writers really made the evening dragbut much of what was

heard dug like a meathook in your heart and brain.

Starting off was shouter and screamer Tricia Warden, author of Brainlift, whose deep-

seated anger at her abusive father fired her many tirades against incest, rape, violence and

emotional cruelty to women. From a set in which pathos alternated with black comedy, Warden

produced the best poem title of the night, “The Smell of Shit Eventually Dissipates, But You

Never Go Away,” a piece recited in honor of Father’s Day.

Second in the lineup was Don Bajema, who delivered a largely forgettable performance

that withered under the glare of an S.R.O. rock club. Still, if you read his book Reach, you might

find his work compelling. Continuing the theme of dysfunctional families, Bajema read poetry

probing memories of growing up with a drunk and slaphappy hillbilly father.

Following was the deliciously droll Michael Gira, who read two short stories, both of

which dealt with the theme of necrophilia. A hush swept over the audience as Gira told of a man

who discovers while cleaning up a plane crash site the body of a female rock star with whom he

has long been obsessed. He drags her body into the surrounding forest, then has his way with her.

Gira’s second story was equally horrifying, involving prisoners in a cell having sex with a dead
prisoner in their midst. Author of a collection of short stories entitled The Consumer, Gira is one

to watch.

Next on stage was punk legend Exene Cervenka, longtime member of Rollins’ 2.13.61

stable. Seeing her was a thrill, as I’ve always been a fan of the band X, dating to its early albums

Los Angeles and Wild Gift, which I find to be wearing well even today. After hearing John Doe do

his rockabilly thing a few years ago, it was interesting to see where Exene’s career has gone post-

X. Nowadays, we’re told, she owns a novelty store in Los Angeles called Bad Taste; otherwise,

she is coping with her band’s break-up and penning screeds in her journal about Doe, et al., then

reading them with gusto.

Last on the bill was Henry Rollins, who had a jazz duet backing him up while he read an

epic poem addressing the theme of “sports-crime-weather-war.” As the drummer rat-a-tat-tatted

and the sax player noodled free jazz, Rollins conjured a vision of the approaching Apocalypse

bad BAD times marked by street crime, random murder, police brutality, and general class

warfare.

Though sometimes his rhymes bordered on the sophomoric, Rollins more often than not

carried the day with a knack for social psychology and a talent for capturing desperate characters,

like the lonely short order cook living in transient hotels, about whom Rollins delivered the best

line of the evening: “Anywhere you hang yourself is home.” Rollins was less animated than you’d

expect for a guy whose day job is punk rock singer. Nevertheless, he kept the audience focused

on a long piece of writing, punctuating his words with well-timed hollers or sly grins.

During the second half of the show it struck me, seeing Exene and Rollins perform, that I

was witnessing musicians who wrote poetry as a sideline. Perhaps I was psyched out from the

aura of these two survivors of early-eighties L.A. punk, or maybe it was the crowd of rock and

roll dudes and chicks that included no poets I knew from the Chicago poetry scene except Steven,

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the zine buyer at Tower Records. Whatever my reservations, the two stars performed with passion

and professionalism. Yet the real literature probably was heard from the first three poets, whose

challenging writing, not their status as Friends of Henry, has earned them spots on 2.13.61’s

growing list.