Emerson, Lake and Palmer begat the Sex Pistols; the Sex Pistols begat Black Flag; Black Flag begat Gone; Gone begat no one, and here the line died out. But Black Flag also begat about a thousand-score hidebound bands who remain nameless (with good reason), each attempting to recreate the exact same polka-beat versus metal chukka-chukka of their predecessor. In time, Black Flag became as suspect as Emerson, Lake and Palmer, and a new race sprang forth, a race that cast aside the trappings of punk but retained its primal seed, casting aside also its "1-2-3-4/Let's start an ideology war" lyrics and monotonous riffs, instead favoring the intricate rhythms and dense structures of Emerson, Lake and Palmer.
Only this time the music was fast and complex and tough, and a thousand punk bands struck their own foreheads, gnashing their crusty teeth and tearing their already tattered clothes, crying out "ELP versus Black Flag via Gone! Of course!" And this new line stood upon the giant shoulders of Ginn, solving the mystery of how to mate punk's fury with jazz's sinewy grace, and unwittingly the scions of this line also solved the mystery of lyrics by eschewing them entirely, letting the music speak for itself. And this new race called themselves Dysrhythmia, and in their veins churned the fury and light of youth. And it was good. And loud.