Moshing Politics (pt. 879):
During The Wagon a man bumps into me, causing me to knock my forearm into my penis. I was a tad incensed and more than tempted to turn to this uncouth pleb and exclaim, "OI, you just caused me to hit my own penis", which might have been interesting, if only to discover with what he might retort, however, I fear it may have all have been in vain as - Dinosaur Jr. were so fucking LOUD *.
Nevermind the suspense as it takes an ambling age to complete what ought to be a pie-simple soundcheck. The initial omens are far from promising as Mascis stalls, delving in procrastinated sessions of knob twiddling inbetween the hesitant first few songs. Barlow too seems an iota below satisfied, cryptically signalling in what is presumably the direction of the sound booth. By the third delay the crowd become restless. Isn't the key to DJ's sound merely to turn up to 11, if not 20? I thought that was what they were famous for. That and fighting onstage. Although it's difficult to believe Barlow used to be regularly battered by Mascis, he's not a small lad by any means. Maybe he's been going to the gym in preperation for this reunion. In comparison Mascis looks like a cross between Neil Young and The Mummy.
Once they hit their stride; he plays like a cross between Godzilla and Satan.
No one I have seen in my life drives a guitar as hard as Mascis, and I have to feel sorry for his poor engine. I've seen video footage of the likes of The Who and Nirvana wrecking their instruments to pieces **. At least they've passed on to a better place. Mascis' instrument has to take the same pounding every night. It's a wonder it hasn't been completely atomised. Some players make lurve to their instrument. Mascis enacts the musical equivalent of repetitive donkey punches, nodding and bouncing, like some satisfied gnome.
Forget the Swan lasts an era. Not everyone can make a song epic and keep me enraptured. Indeed, the longer they ransack their apparatus, the more pulsatingly intense the throbbing excellence becomes. Murph is a perfect picture of concentration. The set consists almost entirely of the first three, original line-up albums. Feel the Pain and Start Choppin' fans may be disappointed but we still get a derranged, base metal Sludgefeast that practically removes the enamel from my teeth, and a whole barrel-full of exploding country punk. And nevermind the actually playing; DJ lay down tools mid-feedback for a five minutes to the loudest whirlwind of static I've ever heard. This is the perfect storm. What's more there appears to be some demonic sub-rumble underneath it all, a sound not unlike a chorus of 747 engines. A fine accompaniment to the extra shrill shredding pitch that cuts in itermitently. In heaven, this is what aeroplanes will sound like.
Encore: Freak Scene is mercyless. I'm guessing Masics would have turned in another epic length solo had he not whammy barred his axe so hard, the tuning has gone. Murph perfoms so emergency repair work on his symbal stand. There are no special lights, but the Twin Peaks-y red curtains add a sort of extra bloody horror factor. I half a expect a giant to come out booming "it is happening again, it is happening again". "This is from the eighties, the real eighties', Barlow states. And they close with some covers. Firstly, The Cure's dream-like Just Like Heaven, given a just slightly jarring death metal twist by Lou's "YOU" booms at the start of each line of the chorus, and what could pass for a couple of protest, proto-speed metal kings Discharge covers (although I can't say for sure). It's all capped with the obligatory final uber-banging.The thing about the loud thing is not just that it IS fucking loud, some of these sounds and full bodied textures can ONLY be created when you do turn everything all the way UP, and simple a formula as it is, there aren't too many who can do it anything like this. There will only ever be one Dinosaur Jr.
Catch 'em while you still can.
As experienced by G.
* moreover, in the grand scheme of general moshing mild blows to the penis are nothing to be ashamed of. In fact one should wear ones penal bruises with pride, openly displaying, where appropriate, with such proclamations as "hey, look what I picked up at Queens of the Stone Age".
** although that's no where near as rock and roll as the Butthole Surfers who used to trash their equipment after only the second song.
*** after-note: one thing about the older corwd, given that this is a lineup that was formed in the early eighties its not an unentirely unexpected demography, however they are a little less energetic. And a bit more couply. I don't mind so much, but can you not stand in front of me and take over head photos of you hugging yourselves during the climactic battering. 'Hey what you doing when Mascis was that solo of a lifetime','Dunno really, wasn't paying attention'. Jeez, if you had any decency or consideration for what has happening here you should be wirthing on the floor, chained in beatial congress, if you had any self-respect at all (listening as hard as possible as well, obviously).
outpatients.