Blog Old punks don't die, they just get perspective

Listen back to Damaged and see if Henry Rollins ever slows things down to shed a more reasonable light, an extra glimmer of nuance, a mitigation of extremes, upon what he's saying. If he had returned to the song "Six Pack" from the stage of the Barrymore Theatre Friday night, the 49-year-old "jackass of all tirades" might have revised it thusly: "I've got a six-pack and I do hope to enjoy it, though I rarely indulge and would prefer to do so in moderation, and while you're welcome to join me, I may in fact just wish to take the edge off with a little peace and quiet."

Rollins is actually on the record as a non-drinker and proclaimed, "I am desperate for your attention and approval," but the point is, his two-and-a-half-hour spoken performance contained enough points of order to qualify for C-SPAN coverage. From the striking stance he maintained in one spot for almost the entire show, Rollins deftly rattled off the Preamble to the Constitution, and the flow of his rants often made room for clarification, displaying a willingness to fuss over the little details, qualify, and deny himself any false air of authority or the cynical convenience of Sarah Palin-grade one-liners. While discussing Bad Brains singer H.R.'s weird behavior during an Election Day gig in D.C., he clarified, "I don't know what ails the man. I'm not a doctor," and after a joke about bisexuals, he noted, "It's obviously more complex than that—I'm just having a bit of fun." And to everyone who carelessly throws around the word "socialist," he snapped, "Spell it! Define it!"

Not that any of this overshadowed his glee during a story about flipping off the despotic leader of Burma at a Sri Lankan hotel, or bludgeoning the Mississippi high-school administrators who recently canceled a prom to keep a lesbian student from attending. It's just that Rollins meticulously deflated extremes much more often than he embraced them. "If I am seen as casting a stone, the sky would immediately darken from all the stones cast back at me," he joked, a universe away from "…and I don't need you."

Rollins' show ended with just enough time to scurry over to the High Noon Saloon and witness another display of grace up against a wall, from the reunited Mission Of Burma. Once again, the new perspective proved just as important as the turbulence of the early days: The band began with "1, 2, 3, Partyy!" from last year's The Sound The Speed The Light, saving "That's When I Reach For My Revolver" and "That's How I Escaped My Certain Fate" for the two encores.

Bassist Clint Conley's vocal on the chorus of "2wice" (from 2004's The Obliterati) reached over Roger Miller's excoriating guitar rather than just hurling itself into the band's wall of noise. The lines "You go, I'll follow / You hide, I'll fuck you up" vaulted up like a madman's bridge between U2 yearning and post-punk sneers. Miller's solos on two songs from the early days were a reminder that this contradiction has always been there. During "This Is Not A Photograph," his guitar wiggled and squelched like interference on a remote end of the radio dial (perhaps with some help from tape-loops man Bob Weston, working from the sound booth), but his thick-ringing high notes on "Einstein's Day" made for an unexpected, melodic slow-down in the middle of the set.

Most of the people hurling each other around in the little pit up front might have been half Miller's age or less, but none had the same fresh face or floppy mop of hair. Drummer-vocalist Peter Prescott pumped a lot of air through a harshly aging throat on songs like "Let Yourself Go" and "Blunder," which only made it more badass that you could actually hear it over his pounding toms. Prescott matched Rollins for gleeful, reckless acceptance of aging and road-wear when he spoke between songs: "My voice is almost gone, but what the fuck? I didn't have much of one in the first place." Sometimes, it's better to catch post-punk heroes in middle age.