Everyone, eventually , gets over Henry Rollins - except, obviously, Henry himself. Most of his albums, however, contain at least a couple of sure-shot winners that have consistently broadened his audience (“Do It”, “Low Self Opinion”).

The problem with “Come In and Burn” is simple : not enough songs strong enough to uphold the weight of Rollins’ overbearing self-obsession. Listen to him say “I don’t know why I’m so torn up inside my mind/the darkness swallows me whole” (on “Shame”) and it’s hard to shake the feeling that the man’s been making the same record for ten years and is in need of a chuckle.

Rollins’ band is carrying its own baggage. Too much of “Come In and Burn” sounds leaden, burdened by arrangements that are relentlessly down when the best of Rollins’ stuff actually elevates you (think how depressing “Low Self Opinion” would be if not for that spiralling crescendo). Discussing individual songs from the album seems almost pointless, mired as it is in its own fundamental humourlessness.

It would be too easy to suggest that Henry’s rage is just a schtick, especially now that that the best Black Flag antihero has been transformed, Clark Kent-style, into MTV super-alternahero. He’s made a substantial career of his own brand of in-your-face authenticity, and it’s that image - the perception that Rollins, unlike most “stars”, is for real - which has itself become larger than life.

Personally, I don’t doubt that Rollins is for real. But I’m not sure that authenticity is the issue in his case. Rather, it’s that Henry Rollins’ anger is not really an energy any more. It’s an artistic prison of his own making.