I don't laugh much anymore. Rather, I don't laugh much at comedies on TV or at the movies. I don't know if the oppressive weight of the world has crushed my spirit after these three trying decades on Earth, or whether it's the dearth of well-written scripts being produced. It got to the point where only "Seinfeld" or "The Simpsons" could get an out-loud bray out of me. Quite tragic, really. No, don't be sad for me. No, no. I'll be okay. Really.

So I was all the more surprised to find myself laughing along to Henry Rollins' A Rollins in the Wry, his nth spoken word album for Quarterstick. While I wasn't exactly expecting the hyper-politicized rants of Jello Biafra or tales of adventure and philosophy like Spalding Gray relates, I'd still forgotten about Hank's ability to provide pure entertainment, brimming with his trademark humility and self-deprecating slant.

Sounding like a profane camp counselor telling stories by the fireside, Rollins' naturally animated raspy voice is the perfect chaperone through eleven tracks of commentary. Even when not funny, he holds your attention. He's the master of the conversational tangent-- what my old friend called "goat trails"-- never getting lost and always finding his way back to the main thread.

Rollins dropped these improvs during a short residency at Luna Park in L.A. in spring of 1999. Seamless segues and smooth soundboard work add up to a consistent feel to the disc. It avoids the cut-in track transitions and fade-ins trampling over applause that make less professional efforts sound piecemeal and clunky.

So, then. Armed with just his wit and his words, how does Rollins fare this time out? Well, let's nitpick. For starters, his banter with the audience is a bit lackluster. More disappointing than that, Rollins seems content to tackle the same threadbare subject matter of every mainstream comedian performing in every smelly comedy shack in the country: airplanes, Bill Clinton, the differences between men and women. C'mon Hank, where are the from-left-field, side-splitter stories about Ian MacKaye and rat poison yogurt toppings? Here, it seemed like Rollins was debuting polished "material" rather than letting the natural humor found in his storytelling skills take center stage. He succeeds more spectacularly when he relies on the latter.

Throughout the early part of the disc, Rollins apologizes for on-stage readings. But honestly, he's forgiven, since his written journal entries and correspondence are as rich as his extemporaneous stuff. Fan letters that suffer in translation to English and Steve Martin-like misadventures on the German Autobahn are worlds better than his hyperactive version of Christ's Passion or his "let's get serious for a minute" closer on Columbine and childrearing.

But more often than not, he shines, especially when he tears into his arch-nemesis (Any guesses at this point? Surely someone like Rollins-- outspoken character, lengthy career-- has plenty of potential rivals out there. No?): Rite-Aid. Yep. Rollins is at war with a drugstore chain. And after you hear his side of things, you'll become a sympathizer. Almost un-toppable are the lovemaking "scenes" from "The United Colors of West L.A." Henry paints a picture you'll find impossible to bleach out of your mind, no matter how hard you try (and you will try).

There's a reason Rollins' creativity long ago flooded the seawalls and dikes of media and spilled over into his autobiographical mini-empire, 2.13.61. It's not that he's a workaholic, as some have supposed; he's a performer at heart and at soul. Rollins cares more about his audience than he does about himself, and that's as rare as it is welcome.

-John Dark