I am a very late arrival to the Black Flag fan club, and I am kicking myself for it. In high school, I was all over the Drive-Thru, Victory, Tooth & Nail, Dischord, and Kung Fu records catalogues, not realizing that almost every single one of the bands I had on repeat had cut their teeth listening to Black Flag.

And this record is truly worthy of its following.

The band is rife with fury, bringing tracks like the fist pumping Rise Above and the languishing Depression (one of the most honest looks at the topic ever put to tape). But the record isn’t too serious to be sarcastic–satires like Six Pack, TV Party, and Gimmie Gimmie Gimmie see the band sticking their tongues at the materialism and vapidity of the LA lifestyle.

But the band’s rejection of LA isn’t enough to keep California out of the music. Greg Ginn’s spastic guitar solos are pure surf rock hidden in distortion and blistering tempos. Robo beats the drums angrily, but when he takes a second between fills to keep the beat, he plays like he’s waiting for the next Descendants show. TV Party even sounds like it could have been a Beach Boys cover. But when all of that sunshiny California rock is filtered through Rollins & Co.’s rage, it burns something fierce.

Also, it should be noted that I once received an email from Henry Rollins. In response to an inquiry to visit one of my classes, he said, “Nathaniel, I can’t do that. Henry.” Not a man to beat around the bush.