Subject: Henry Rollins
Location: Los Angeles, CA
Domain: Writing, Spoken Word, Music
Project at Time of Interview: Before the Chop book, ongoing spoken word touring
Format: Email exchange
Date: 2013-07-16
Introduction: At the time of this exchange, my interview practice was still taking its early shape. I had recently spoken with a recording artist, a music journalist, and a producer, and my questions were broad and unsettled in their focus. Henry Rollins had long seemed to me to be unusually direct and attentive to the work itself. I contacted his publicist with a simple request to send a short set of questions, with no expectation of reply. Permission was granted without any promise of response.
What follows is a unilateral exchange conducted by email. The format reflects both the distance of the medium and the early stage of my method at the time.
Ryan Brymer:
Henry, thanks for doing this. With the volume of music being released now, how do you approach keeping up? Are you still actively searching for new sounds?
Henry Rollins:
I know a little about music, but there’s always more. Years ago I stopped trying to know it all and just stayed open. One of my favorite frustrations is that there’s so much great music—past, present, and future—that I’ll never reach more than a fraction of it.
I try to listen to five records a day; usually it’s one to three, and always music I haven’t heard before. Some albums I’ll hear only once. There’s simply too much. So yes, I’m still finding music—constantly.
Ryan:
With recording being so accessible now, do you think that lower barrier helps or hurts the art?
Henry:
It cuts both ways. A lot of great work exists because people can record cheaply and experiment. People are exploring their potential—that’s good. And with a lot of wheat comes a lot of chaff.
But the idea of young people making music is a good thing. It doesn’t have to be released or widely heard to be worth doing.
Ryan:
You once described yourself as a kind of “rock ’n’ roll ninja,” doing enormous amounts of work under the radar. As more artists leave long-term label deals, do you see that kind of approach becoming more common?
Henry:
A lot of bands realized they were on a cotton farm and could instead have a farm of their own. That’s great. I’m happy to see huge labels lose to things like love of music and integrity. Let them bleed out.
Ryan:
With the rise of social media and reality-show culture, does entitlement seem more prevalent among younger artists?
Henry:
I honestly avoid meeting artists and actors unless I’m working with them. If I want the experience, I buy the ticket and the records—I don’t need to meet the band.
I don’t know much about “young musicians” as a group. The shows I see are great. J Mascis was great last week. The Stooges the week before.
Ryan:
Do you think fewer artists are willing to grind it out now—van tours, constant shows?
Henry:
Some still do. I did 190 shows in 19 countries last year. Touring is how I make it real. Eventually it stops being a tour and becomes your life.
There’s no single correct way, though. If someone wants to play three shows a year, that’s fine too.
Ryan:
A producer recently told me that artists with a deeper sense of purpose tend to step away more gracefully, while others continue producing because they don’t know what else to do. Does that resonate with you?
Henry:
A lot of people don’t have a plan B. They have “the band,” and that’s their whole identity. I think that’s boring. You want to sing the same song for the rest of your life?
Some people stop daring themselves. I went the other way. Sitting around with bandmates about to play 30-year-old songs I already summitted—that’s nothing I want. I’d rather take my chances on the Sea of Consequence.
Ryan:
Do you see artists hanging on to dead careers because they have nothing else?
Henry:
Maybe. But it’s not for me to judge. I have to deal with myself—“the bitch of the thing,” as Hemingway said.
I have no competition besides myself. That’s the hardest adversary I’ve found. I push myself to see where things break. That’s why I do solo shows. One man, one microphone, one shot.
I live alone. I spend a lot of time alone. I’m not anti-people, but I do most things alone.
Ryan:
Do you speak out because you feel a responsibility to your audience, or because of genuine conviction?
Henry:
I owe my audience the truth—as best as I can put it. I try to meet them at their level of integrity. They deserve that.
I speak out because I’m genuinely angry. If it were duty, you’d see me phoning it in. I have to be into it. When I am, I can floor it.
Ryan:
Do all artists share that responsibility?
Henry:
No. There’s no rule book. If Poison wants to sing about having fun for two hours, why not? My code applies only to me.
Ryan:
Is anyone handling the present moment well, politically or artistically?
Henry:
Tom Morello.
Ben Harper.
Willie Nelson.
Neil Young.
Chrissie Hynde.
Natalie Maines.
Patti Smith.
Ian MacKaye.
Chuck D.
People who are standing up for good things.
Reflection: Reading this exchange now, I notice how frequently his replies return the questions to the level of the individual rather than the industry, and to personal discipline rather than abstraction. At the time, my own attention was still largely oriented toward cultural patterns and structural commentary. His responses did not engage that frame directly. Instead, they remained fixed on singular responsibility, solitary practice, and the long cost of sustained work.
In retrospect, this exchange marked a quiet shift in how I began to listen.