The surly doorman stamps my hand at the Rebel, a brand new club in Midtown Manhattan. I look down and realize the stamp features a unicorn penetrating a porpoise, which I later learn is the club’s logo. Oookay. Obscene hand decorations aside, I am pumped. Born way too late to catch the essence of true post-punk, I am getting a second chance tonight, because the newly reunited Dinosaur Jr. is playing a sold-out show.
I catch Thalia Zadek’s opening set, which I can best describe as “morning after music.” I’m talking the mornings when you fall out of bed, claw for some ibuprofen and water, and have a 10-minute debate with yourself about whether or not a shower is worth sacrificing 15 minutes of sleep. This is soft on the ears, yet powerful; androgynous, plaintive moaning with guitar reminiscent of The Walkmen and a smattering of violin and soft drums brings me to the following conclusion: yes, indeed, you can be low-key without being a snore. As my college radio station would say, RIYL (recommended if you like) Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
In between sets, I realize I am quite possibly the youngest person here. A few audience members have clearly come straight to the show from work. One of the few exceptions lies in the teenage boy who approaches me and asks me to buy a beer for him. The cruelty of being surrounded by cold beverages at an all-ages show is fresh in my mind, and I briefly ask myself what Lou Barlow would do, but I decline the kid’s request. This place is freaking me out already. It’s awkward and L-shaped, and there are cages on the walls with staircases leading up to them, plainly marked “Do Not Enter the Cages.” The between-set music ranges from amazing to nonsensical, from Tears for Fears to Beat Happening to uh, Fountains Of Wayne.
The club is crisp and tense with expectancy, and the applause is akin to shattering glass when Dinosaur Jr. take the stage around 10pm. J Mascis grunts, “Awrightthanksforcomin’ ” and we’re off. He’s still got that hair, all right, but it’s silvery. Forget it. I’m dancing, and I can almost see memories of 1989 forming above the audience’s heads. The band draws out the final words of “Freakscene” like they almost can’t believe it, lingering on “… when I need a friend it’s... still... you... ”
Murph, sans hair and looking a little bit like a misplaced accountant, is whaling on the drums, but the hollow, crashing beats are exactly as I remember them -- on record, of course. I wonder how they sound to the audience members who recall the real thing. Dinosaur Jr. obsessively tune between every single song, and while they’re not big talkers, Lou smirks during one break and comments, “Me and Murph are really sweatin’ up here... but J never seems to sweat.” J’s looking pretty smiley, in fact, with sort of a sideways grin that doesn’t leave his face for long throughout the set. His solo during “Raisans” lasts nearly five minutes.
Ripping through most of You’re Living All Over Me and Dinosaur, plus a couple solo tracks from Lou and J, it seems they’ve done good by the audience, who are screaming every single lyric along with the Dinos. The vocals are mixed a little low in the PA, but no one seems to mind. I’m still in a mild state of disbelief that I’m in a club seeing THE Dinosaur Jr., but the encore finally makes it real. Their now-famous “Just Like Heaven” cover ends with a punched “YOU!” and somewhere, Robert Smith is suddenly ashamed of himself. The show closes with “Chunk,” but I’m in a fog after they play “In A Jar,” due to the mild existential crisis that is my 21-year-old self getting to see my favorite Dinosaur Jr. song played live.
We’re eating pizza next door after the show, our ears ringing. A couple of fellow audience members around our age wander in, looking dazed.
Yeah, we’re some lucky kids.
