Dinosaur Jr.

Black Cat is a stone’s throw from the Washington Metro green line, set along a row of shopfronts that look like they were designed with the Alamo in mind. It’s a spacious venue with a sizeable bar downstairs, then another one to the side of the main stage in the upstairs area. The stage area is impressive, with enough room to comfortably accommodate a couple hundred people. As far as D.C. venues go, Black Cat usually plays host to more dance-oriented events and electronic acts, so it was an extra treat to see such a guitar-heavy band like Dinosaur Jr. on the schedule.

I arrived early to meet someone for a few drinks before the main act took the stage, around the time of the first opener. I always feel a bit guilty choosing the bar over the stage, but judging from the number of people kicking around downstairs, it appeared that they shared my lack of interest in the openers. Beer followed beer as the muffled anonymity of those bands vibrated the ceiling above. There was a nice showing of oddities shuffling about, including a dude who bemoaned the bar’s lack of rock salt for a margarita (what dude orders one at a show?) and another who looked like a cross between 1991 Chris Cornell and that nerd guru from Freaks and Geeks. After a healthy alcohol watering, it was time for a quick smoke and up the stairs to catch the main act.

Dinosaur Jr. started 23 years ago, though the band arguably hit its breakthrough in 1991 with its major-label debut, Green Mind. The trio of guitarist J. Mascis, bassist Lou Barlow, and drummer Murph were instrumental to the success of the grunge era, incorporating sludgy punk riffs with an unhinged lead guitar ferocity that harked back to the days of Hendrix, Clapton, and even Stevie Ray Vaughan. Mascis is simultaneously a fuzzed-out stoner punk and high priest of blues lead, with bends that threaten to shear the strings right off his axe. Barlow’s and Murph’s driving rhythms set the pace for a unique sound that encapsulated a time of underground punk when the ferocity of the late ’70s met the virtuosity of the late ’60s. Although the current lineup formed Dinosaur Jr. in 1984, Barlow and Murph departed in the early ’90s before the band’s official breakup. The current tour marks a reunion of Dinosaur Jr. after Mascis retired the name in 1997 and the original members had long since pursued other projects. They say time heals all wounds, and 10 years later it appears as if tensions have subsided and the band still has it in them.

The trio took the stage some time around 10:00 (I can’t really remember). Mascis was easily recognizable with his split-ended flow of silver hair whose style hasn’t changed since the band’s inception. Murph’s bald pate recalls Radiohead’s Phil Selway and Barlow’s youthful appearance belies his ripe age of 41. At this point, I was nervous about having forgotten earplugs, but figured I might be able to muddle through with improvised bits of toilet paper jammed in my ear canals. However, the four stack amps behind Mascis alone were an imposing sight, and in the back of my mind was the certainty that I wouldn’t be able to hear for days.

Jets of sound soon erupted out of those stacks as the band launched into its opener. Mascis funneled his gravel road vocals into the towering charge of noise, with Barlow backing. An often underrated guitarist, Mascis is the lead and the rhythm all at once, spiking the notes over the crowd with a deadly precision. Barlow’s style of playing is more like that of a punk guitarist, hammering notes like power chords and attaching a thick sound to the squealing bends out of Mascis’ guitar. As a preventative device, my makeshift earplugs were about as effective as a perforated condom. It was a ripping noise that could have been used to disperse riots, but it was a perfect level for a band like Dinosaur Jr.

In between the songs, Mascis would flutter digital swamp frogs, chattering birds, and delayed chirps out of his guitar. Acting like neopsychedelic intermissions between the pulverizing songs, they further demonstrated Mascis’ mastery of his Fender Jaguar’s roar. The band let their instruments do the talking, and cut the bullshit by keeping interaction with the crowd to a minimum. Everyone knew who they were and what they did, and that was all that was needed. Two standouts of the show included the old-school jam, “Forget The Swan,” and the 10,000 pound pop song “Freak Scene” off the band’s 1988 album, Bug. The propulsive vocal attack of “Forget The Swan” preceded Mascis’ soloing with a sense of gravitational dread, hammering the crowd into headbangs. “Freak Scene” was greeted with the most applause of the night, as the band returned to the stage for a two-song encore. Although the crowd was in motion, it was hardly unhinged. As a lone 20-something Quentin Tarantino look-alike threw his body against his neighbors in an intoxicated attempt to prompt some moshing, I began to ponder. Was the crowd timid or just plain tame? Had the warped fury of angst of the end of Reagan’s reign been soothed with time? Were people just afraid of breaking stuff in the place?

By the time the show wrapped up, I had nothing but windchimes in my ears: a fuzzy, bruised absence of discernable tones that persisted for three days after. I’d say it was well worth it. Age hasn’t deterred Dinosaur Jr. from pumping out a signature sound that had an indelible impact on well-known bands like Nirvana. The sound and the fury are still intact.

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.