H
enry Rollins, as I knew him when he played Stache’s, was practically two different people.
There was the punk “rawk” star that had led Black Flag and come to us as the frontman of the Rollins Band. He was an incredibly focused individual, not given to idle conversation. When he arrived to play a gig in 1989, Ben Pridgeon (my bar manager and gifted bassist for the Squids) and I were engrossed in the final minutes of a Lakers-Celtics showdown. Curt Schieber, who was still promoting most of the national shows as “No Other Presents,” hadn’t yet arrived for his usual promoter duties: doling out per diem meal money as well as hospitality items like booze, water, snacks and towels, and making sure the technical sound and stage needs were met (all parts of the contract “rider”).
Often the band would have a tour or road manager that procured the items and went over the details of the show, but in this case, Henry took care of his own business.
After whizzing past us behind the bar, absorbed as we were in the NBA finals, he shortly returned and intensely inquired about the promoter’s whereabouts, as well as the aforementioned contract rider items.
I couldn’t tell if he didn’t like basketball, hated bar owners or was just devoid of human emotion. He seemed cold and hard, almost robot-like, even though he was incredibly dynamic once he hit the stage. I came to realize after subsequent Rollins Band shows that the no-nonsense, down-to-business man was one side of Henry.
The other Master H.R. was the spoken word genius, who, when he arrived without a band in tow, was always affable, humorous, warm and downright charming.
I knew he had something to say when I read the lyrics to the Black Flag album “My War!” I may be alone here, but I’m not good at picking out words sung by Cookie Monster-like punk lead vocals. The dude was hilarious and his message was on point when he came to us as Henry Rollins, word artist. I almost felt guilty about the Wheaties box parody we had behind the bar. It was a picture of him affixed to the cardboard that said “Henry, Portrait of a Cereal Eater.” He actually found it funny. It disappeared at some point and I always wondered if someone gave it to him.
He also dated one of my friends and longtime employees. This brought him to town a few times when we weren’t doing business, which led me to believe that the real Henry was the second one, charming, intelligent and humorous, although when my friend saw his video for the song “Liar,” she said he was speaking the truth.
After playing my room in one form or another at least five or six times, Henry’s popularity increased enough that he needed to play a larger space. He stopped by Stache’s before a Rollins Band Newport gig to see if anyone wanted to be on his guest list.
I was feeling disrespected by him because I was not included as a co-promoter of the show. Often when an act would outgrow Stache’s, I would promote or co-promote a show in a larger space, provided that the act’s agent included me. Poi Dog Pondering, Buddy Guy, Jon Spencer and Jesus Lizard were a few of the acts that always made sure to bring me along. This time, I wasn’t. So when Henry stopped in, I asked him to step into my office for a private conversation.
When I told him I thought I should have been included in the deal, he said “It’s only business – it’s nothing personal, Dan.”
“Henry, in this business, everything is personal,” I said.
He did apologize for my hurt feelings, since there was nothing else that could have been done at that point. I held it against him then, but looking back, I think his was an honest oversight. And I had far too many good experiences with people like Henry Rollins to dwell on the few setbacks.
John Mayer has been shamed lately for his explicit logorrhea, and perhaps rightly so, but when he played Little Brother’s on the eve of success, he was quite polite and gracious.
ding for $x,000,000 and we have a deal.” They were so put off by the man’s arrogance that they dropped the deal and ended up buying an old theater in Madison,Wisconsin. Back to my reality I went.
