Henry Rollins
The Iron Lung of Hardcore, Forged in Fury
I don't bark. I roar.
I came from concrete and glass and noise. From record stores and broken mics. I took the mic and made it bleed. I gave you every last drop of me on that stage—raw, unfiltered, unapologetic. Offstage? I read. I write. I lift. I listen. But don’t mistake silence for softness. I’m always working. Always refining. The fury? That’s real. The discipline? That’s how it stays.
What I'm Into: treadmills at 5am, punk ethos, weight rooms, black coffee, spoken word
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