Saturday night brought to Albuquerque the reigning king of elder punks: Henry Rollins. Hank. A guy who went through high school on Ritalin (which he's described as a loud buzz that shuts out all other thought), joined his favorite punk band when he was still a kid (Black Flag) and eventually became an icon to a generation of kids who grew up "alternative." I was one of those kids.

I didn't find out about Hank from listening to Black Flag (although I almost bought "Songs About Fucking" when I was a young hair rock enthusiast--because of the title, of course). And, while I have a Rollins Band CD (the one with "Liar" on it), I really started to appreciate Hank because of nights spent in a cramped utility apartment with an old friend who was playing drums in a reggae band at the time. We would get high (my friend had Jamaican pot connections because of his reggae roots), have his three aged TVs glowing (one with static, one had no sound and the other hardly got a picture) and listen to spoken word CDs from Hank's earlier days. Back when the stories were about being covered with gallons of spit from punks, getting into fights, hit by bottles and jerking off in dirty bar bathrooms before gigs.

Rollins isn't really political, but he has political thoughts. He's more of a rambling story-telling confessor--almost stand up comedy, but without practiced one liners and punch lines. If you want politics, listen to Jello Biafra (who isn't as fun live, because he basically recites or reads speeches he's already written). And if you want real comedy, there are dozens of comedians to listen to. But the humanness of Hank is what got me way back in the day. The fact that this hulk of a man could be so self-effacing, funny, non-judgmental and mostly off the cuff--that's what makes a Rollins spoken word show special.

Hank's personal politics are rather simple: he doesn't do drugs or drink; he works out religiously; he has a relatively solitary life (for a 40-year-old, his views on women are rather naive--which he freely admits). But with all of these things he believes in, he really doesn't preach them on stage. Hank, being part of the big rock and roll machine for over 20 years, knows that most of his peers (and underlings) indulge in women, drugs, drink and whatever else they can get their hands on. He was a good friend of Shannon Hoon (Blind Melon) who died of a speedball O.D. in the mid-90s. While he will recommend certain things, but he doesn't preach--probably because he knows that his way of life isn't necessarily desirable by many at all. He is a free-flowing, free-spirited renaissance man who happened to be able to make enough money to live from music, touring, and whatever else people would let him do (movie acting and TV appearances).

Saturday night was interesting. It took place at the Sunshine Theater, which is an old movie theater remodeled into a club/live venue. Almost 10 years ago, I saw Fugazi for $5 there--straight edge, unrelenting punk. I've seen dozens of shows there since that first toe dip, and was a little wary of seeing Hank in a place where there isn't always a good place to sit down--because he talks forever. Last night he clocked in at about 2 1/2 hours.

Filled with long rambling stories about foreign countries (India and its rather efficient way of disposing with dead relatives), big time rock stars (going to a Kiss concert earlier this year), reminiscence about being in Albuquerque again and getting old. Because Hank, like the rest of us, is getting old. I was shocked for a few seconds when I heard he was 40--mostly because that made me what it makes me. But, for the most part, he's taking the age thing about the same as me: a little bit of denial and a whole bunch of immaturity and do your own thing.

I stood for most of the night (because, like usual, I got there right before the show started, so there were no seats left) near an increasingly drunk and decorated punk. This guy had a freshly-spiked mohawk (I think tinted blue) with a magic-markered anarchy symbol on one side of the shaved parts of his head. He was pretty drunk when I got there and had at least three shots and three beers (continually served, even when he could hardly sit on his stool anymore) after I arrived. As the alcohol raged through his veins and Hank talked about getting old, Kiss and other things that this young punk saw as very "un-punk," this guy kept his bird flipped hand in the air and screamed "Fuck--" whatever it was he wanted to tell to fuck off.

In the last half-hour, Rollins finally had enough of the continual barrage of abuse and soundly rejected the drooling punk's epithets from stage. A minute or so later, security took the drunk punk away. My friend and I moved onto his empty stools.

There is something here. Some kind of lesson. But, like most of Hank's stories, you have to figure it out for yourself. Maybe it speaks to the age of us geezers who still revere an even older punk geezer who travels to each spoken word gig in a big, redesigned Greyhound. Maybe we feel better that Hank--much like the Rolling Stones--can keep doing this kind of thing. Which means that we can too.

Maybe it means that we too can delay growing up for another year or ten. Of course, we could just be fooling ourselves and redefining what we think is punk--since the one guy I saw wearing battle gear and defending his narrow version of punk is the one guy who got thrown out.

Matt Worley is not straight edge, he's more like a dull machete.