Black Flag
The Process Of Weeding Out

I hide behind my smile, spit on the ground with a defiant air, and stride confidently to settle the score, to erupt all my hate. To scream out all my shame. I'm ready to tear them apart and pummel their memory. A thick and prickly fabric protects me from the torment of doubt: reason pushes me to be as cruel as possible. My feet move to syncopated rhythms, taking random directions, stumbling. I hit my face against it, and I hit hard against my indecision.    

"The Process of Weeding Out" is the swan song of the glorious Black Flag here as a trio, as good old Henry Rollins had now been ousted from the band. A band that, for better or worse, has always embodied the will of Greg Ginn, who this time decides, a bit surprisingly (but not too much), to sharply veer towards a cerebral, nervous, almost virtuosic sound, distantly jazzy. And anyone who knows them only for "Damaged" I am sure would be astounded.
There are four pieces, all supported by a creative rhythm section, pulsating, fun, and varied as ever in which Kira (the sexiest bassist in the history of mankind) and Stevenson earn their daily bread deservedly (and woe to anyone who calls them punkarrusi!).
The absolute protagonist is, however, Ginn's guitar which is tormented, launched into neurotic gallops at a thousand miles an hour, made guilty of fearsomely grating and lopsided solos and which, without mincing words, makes us enjoy it as if it were national Jimi playing it (well, let's not exaggerate).
That's all there is, folks, this is what it's about. That's all?!?!?! Wow...

Having recovered from the blow, I kneel to gather my thoughts. The murderous glare seems to have diminished, but I'm still confused, and foam forms at my mouth. A spring breeze creeps under my skin (but where could it be coming from?) and a warm reflection warms my heart for a moment. Without realizing it, I find myself chuckling until my jaw hurts; and laugh, laugh, laugh until I lose all the breath I have in my lungs. I slowly walk through the alleys of my daily regrets and barely have time to dry yet another tear before finding shelter.