This collection, Rollins’ first publication this side of the Atlantic, contains within its text three books, Polio Flesh, Two Thirteen Sixty One and End to End, originally limited editions from some time in the mid-eighties, I am informed.

Rollins means it. He begins by dedicating the book to Fugazi, James Brown, and Hubert Selby, Jr. It’s the mention of Selby that seems most significant. Certainly Rollins is serious in the same way: he exposes himself by means of a series of experiences, short stories and anecdotes, related virtually as one long stream of consciousness, an emotional stream of hope, desire, confusion, despair, anger, sex, love, fear, hate. It will come as no surprise to those who’ve heard his records with Black Flag and his own Rollins Band that Rollins doesn’t compromise; this is hard core writing from one of the more intelligent players at the heart of the American hard core punk scene, and it’s as hyperactive as his performances.

He does, perhaps, come on a bit strong. Body Bag is a bad-tempered book. Rollins doesn’t mince words, this is straight from the heart stuff and it goes on in the same vein for the entire book. Rollins’ vision is dark, his views on human nature and his own behaviour are almost paranoid. He can be funny, but not enough to stem the bloody tide.

Body Bag is perhaps just too long and unremitting. It deals with grim, raw reality to the extent that it’s almost poisonous; there’s more than enough of it to give you a headache. But there’s no point in not telling it how you see it. •

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