"I find much bitterness in myself" (p.94). This work reminds me how hard I find non-linear books/stories/works. The unceasing negativity that rolls off the pages just means this book isn't for me. More than half the book is a section titled '124 Worlds' which is 124 vignettes, most a sentence or paragraph in length. I did like 'Exhaustion Blues' and 'Black Coffee Blues' quite a bit, but that's only about thirty pages or so. ( )

I’ve been an avid fan of Henry Rollins for years (mainly his spoken-word performances and his time spent with Black Flag), but I’d never actually read any of his books prior to Black Coffee Blues. I figured I’d start with what seems to be widely recognized as the classic Rollins text, plus I guessed I couldn’t go wrong since the book contains a mix of poetry, tour journals, and other various rants and ravings.

I cannot say I was not disappointed with the work, but I can say it didn’t make me not want to read more Rollins. If you’re like me, you might have expected a lot razor sharp social commentary mixed in with Rollin’s signature off-color wit. Before you pick this up, chuck those preconceived notions out the window; this is far from a pleasant experience.

Half the book is comprised of a piece entitled “124 Worlds” which contains numbered glimpses into the lives of random people, mainly urban-dwelling denizens. The “worlds” are short; some are only a few sentences, and some about two pages in length. This section seems to be Rollins’ chance to sprinkle some social commentary amidst glimpses into issues that seem to disturb him the most, namely senseless violence.

The “worlds” that portray senseless violence vary in brutality, and are most disturbing when discussing nihilism (there are tons of shootings, stabbings, and the butchering of an infant). What’s most disturbing about this senseless violence, and what is certain to be a turn-off to many, is that Rollins rarely questions it, choosing instead to simply present problems “as is”, providing no antecedents and no solutions.

Suicide is also a major talking point. People who are living in the depths of depravity kill themselves, usually at the end of a gun-barrel. Alternately, the same types of people often consider suicide, and then simply continue their lives. People who are presented as “perfect” in society’s eyes kill themselves too, a pervasive feeling of hollowness and uselessness being the prime cause. There are also those who kill as many people as they can, before adding their own bodies to the count.

Rollins cuts to the core with what disturbs him the most, presenting us with these acts the way he sees them: senseless, moronic, and horrific. If you’re like most people, you hopefully don’t want to spend your day reading about these things; however, Rollins’ depictions resemble the stereotypical train wreck you keep your eyes glued upon. Luckily, he provides us with some ample social commentary and autobiographical examples of sad irony, my favorite being the following: “I got three letters today telling me that I’m god. Why can’t I pay the rent?”

“124 Worlds” was an extremely quick read, partly because I couldn’t wait to get to the tour journals. However, before getting there, a couple more rants cropped up. Most memorable among these was “Monster”, which describes Rollins’ depression. As a fan of his music, this interested me the most. If you’re not into hardcore punk rock, you’re sure to dismiss Black Flag’s songs as drivel, for obvious reasons. Chances are, you either love the music or hate it, and if you hate it, you probably picked up this book by accident. If you love it, you’ll be surprised at the self-deprecation concerning the music. Rollins describes pouring his heart and soul, his blood and guts onto the stage every night, and coming away not having had a cathartic experience, but feeling talentless, questioning why in the world anyone would listen to this garbage in the first place.

He pines away in his dressing room, sitting on the floor, sweating and refusing to talk to anyone. Suicide becomes another major focal point as Rollins ponders whether he should kill himself, then decides suffering is more noble, or at least more annoying to life. He describes attempting to act like someone else, and the emptying feeling of discovering he cannot change, and continues to hate who he is. Don’t expect any humor.

I found “Monster” and “124 Worlds” insightful; however, after these two, the book began to constantly put me to sleep. The tour journals were not interesting, and contained much the same self-deprecation as “Monster”, which, at this point, becomes extremely tedious. Depression is at center stage for the rest of the book, and while many find solace in Rollins’ company, there lacks a flow to the work that makes it readable.

Toward the end, the style of “124 Worlds” makes a return with “64 Dreams”, which is exactly what the title states. At this point, though, I’d had enough. While many of the dream sequences were curious from a Freudian standpoint, most were mundane.

As I said before, I’m not opposed to reading more of Rollins’ books; in fact, I have Do I Come Here Often? and Smile, You’re Traveling (Black Coffee Blues, Parts 2 & 3) waiting on my bookshelf. Black Coffee Blues seems to represent the darker experiences of Rollins’ life, written at a less-than-compelling time. There are moments of brilliance that make the book a worthy read, but only if you’re familiar with the author outside of literature. ( )

"Black Coffee Blues" collects writing from 1989 to 1991, the period shortly before one of his best friends, Joe Cole, to whom the book is dedicated, was shot to death in Los Angeles, an event that was life changing for Rollins.

The book is split into seven sections. Two, the opening "124 Worlds" and the later "61 Dreams" consist of pieces of a few lines, the former describing the bleak worlds of a variety of individuals, the latter a dream journal.

The central "Black Coffee Blues" is a series of journal entries from a European tour, "I Know You" a poem and the remaining three pieces "Exhaustion Blues", "Invisible Woman Blues" and "Monster" rather meandering essays.

These pieces share the same mindset and world view of Rollins the speaker - a mixture of anger, drive, brutal honesty and self-loathing. However, without the contemporary edge which characterises his live appearances these often seem like little more than the morose writings of a depressed, self-obsessed teenager (Rollins is now 48, so would have been in his late twenties when this book was written). There's none of the humour that has run through some of the live shows I've seen either.

Maybe his more recent work, where Rollins' mind might have been broadened by the tragic death of Joe Cole, his non-tour related travelling and increasing maturity, might make for more rewarding reading, but this was a disappointment. ( )

I've said it before, and I'll say it again -- that Hank is One Sick Puppy. Seriously. This, like many of his books, is best enjoyed in small bites, otherwise one's view of the world could become seriously skewed. ( )