The night started out with a drink.  Drinks usually cover something up whether you want them to or not.  A man walking around Hollywood on his way to a rock show on a Wednesday night always has something to cover up.  As I walked north up Vine, edging towards the corner of Hollywood Blvd, I looked up from the view of my shoes passing over star’s stars, and I was halted by this overwhelming sensation to stop strangers and discuss the notion of new wave/hardcore rock/punk with a layered jazzy twist.  The dirt and the depths of the sidewalks of Hollywood always remind me of miscreants, decadence and heavy twisting rock and roll solos. 

Dinosaur Jr. washed me clean of all my hidden agitation with a fierce set of fiery hardcore rock music.  The loudness and velocity of the assault was enough to keep me awake into the wee hours of the morning thinking about nothing but the empowerment of hard driven bass lines and prehistoric caveman drumming.  All of the anger and frustration of a day, any day, was lifted into the purgatory of my emotional waiting room and I was set free to be childlike.   As I entered the Avalon on Wednesday, August 17, 2005 in Hollywood, I was an adult with a guilty conscience and a penchant for using words to pass through the night.  When the music started, I didn’t need words.

I am not old. I am a young guy but sometimes the wisdom of my experience makes me feel old. When Dinosaur Jr., blasted onstage I felt young, really young. And I felt the wisdom of a band that oozes their music with subtlety so well that there is no need for heavy showmanship, costumes or frankly, bullshit. These sagacious old dinosaurs just play. This is a band that wields their instruments like expert fisherman bobbing and wading through the LA air in an unspoken realization of fury in the howling of a steam engine blasting from port somewhere Americana.

The trio of J Mascis, Lou Barlow and Murph, the original lineup for Dino, roared out incredibly loud guitar solo over crashing drums and hugely thumping bass. Mascis and Barlow traded the mumbling of lyrics that seamlessly matched thunderous musical interludes. Pausing for a few seconds in between songs, Lou would mention that they are playing another selection from the first album, the 1987 release You’re Living All Over Me. The set list is as follows:

1. Little Fury Things
2. Kracked
3. Sludgefeast
4. Lung
5. Raisans
6. Tarpit
7. In a Jar
8. Lose
9. Poledo
10. Just Like Heaven

It was all 80’s hardcore, that which I will mention after I have described the band members to a violent and poignant detail.

J Mascis has gone from looking like the East Coast version of Spicoli (see Fast Times At Ridgemont High) to a grayed haired hippie uncle who will smoke weed with you and take you to a Dead show. His look, notwithstanding, the boy plays a mean guitar and the grace to which he violently strums is a lesson for any aspiring musician. His layered wall of sound technique comes at you like a combination of a Japanese terraced garden on acid and Saturday night in a smoky Kansas City jazz club in the 50’s. He unveils each next phrase of music with a now you see me, now you don’t sensibility that is extremely rare in hardcore rock. And the candor of his stage presence is a testament to the respect that he attracts.

Lou Barlow is very similar in nature. His demeanor, although a bit more rockin and rollin is, how do you say? Normal. He looks like my cousin Fred from Iowa. He wears pretty normal blue jeans with a gray collared polo shirt. But his bass levels you with every twang. These twangs evoke fear in your brain. They burrow deep down within your chest and slowly and speedily pop in your lungs. After each pop you check your pulse to see if your heart is still beating. And then when you find out it is, you wonder how much longer it will be. A good show makes you question the dynamic between pleasure and pain that occurs when bass is echoing in your lungs. And I must thank Lou for once again helping me ponder that issue.

Murph. Did you ever see that episode of The Flintstones where Bam Bam is playing the drums? And he does it with this wild fervent raucous style that can only be attributed to noise. Murph makes noise too. This noise builds a foundation for hard-line bedrock with terrestrial layers as guitar and bass. Murph’s bald and shirtless look make him appear like Mr. Clean at the beach but his playing is the darkest and dirtiest corner of the jungle. One that can only exists in prehistoric times.

Wednesday’s set list was a replica of You’re Living All Over Me with a touch of The Cure for encore. This set list makes those who recognize it feel like dinosaurs. But we forget, dinosaurs are cool. I’m not poking fun at Dinosaur Jr. when I say they remind me of a hardcore punk rock version of the band that played the night of the Big Bang. For all I know, they are responsible for it. Although, the Avalon was not full, the audience members all left quite satisfied from a night of loud cacophonic screaming and melody. And the mosh pit that found me in the center during the encore was a kinder gentler version than those of the late 80’s and early 90’s. The mood had changed and the band mentioning that they were happy to be playing in front of friends and family in LA coated the theater with warmth. The lure of nostalgia always makes me feel like a child. A child is the best drink one can have when looking to cover up the angst of another Hollywood night in adulthood.