i first heard a rollins spoken word performance ten years ago this month, traveling across europe during spring break of my senior year with a college friend and two acquaintances.

the boxed life was probably one of the only things that kept us from killing each other, four people and all their gear smashed into gina, a peugeot 3-door hatchback.

he was angry. he was raw. he was 32.

the man onstage at the 9:30 last night was not angry, not really. oh, he’s still got issues — his mortality, fear of abandonment (specifically from women), etc. but over a decade of spoken word therapy in front of adoring audiences has softened him. anger didn’t seem to spew from him as it did a decade ago; rather, he tapped into the well and presented it to the audience with practiced irony. “i’m not angry at you,” he said. “i’m angry for you.”