It happened between Anders and Woods and Comets on Fire, in the
lull between sets as roadies set up for the next act. On Friday
night at a reunion show by pre-grunge pioneers Dinosaur Jr., I
stood in the middle of the Troubadour, one of the most intimate
venues in all of music. Then as I sipped my drink, I turned my head
to a shocking sight.
Coming toward me was a man wearing an adidas track jacket. He
had flowing silver hair, large glasses, and more than a hint of a
middle-aged paunch. I squinted at this man as he sauntered in my
direction. We made eye contact, but he quickly looked away at the
ground. As he passed by, I suddenly realized who this weary-looking
man was.
Joseph Mascis. The man simply known as “J.”
Indie-rock guitar hero. Frontman of Dinosaur Jr. The man whose
music has dominated my tastes both directly and indirectly for
years. Here he was, this paragon of music, of rock ‘n’
roll, of my musical education.
And here he was, walking across the Troubadour like any other
concertgoer, mostly unmolested as he walked to the side of the
stage and talked to some fans. These fans, it turns out, were girls
who may not have even been born when Dinosaur Jr. was in its
heyday. In any other context, someone unaware of who Mascis was
would see this as a creepy old man hitting on young girls. It was a
visual that was too much for me to handle. This is not how I
pictured the guy who has written some of my favorite songs of all
time.
As Mascis took his position onstage and did to his guitar what
my new paper shredder does to my old credit card receipts, I
couldn’t get these images of Mascis out of my head.
Culling songs equally from all of the band’s major albums,
Mascis, bassist and sometime-solo musician Lou Barlow and drummer
Murph played perhaps the loudest rock concert I have ever attended.
So loud, in fact, that by the time Mascis ripped into the opening
power chord salvo of “Sludgefeast,” my hearing was so
thoroughly impaired that I could no longer make out what was being
played through the sea of distortion. This, of course, gave me more
time to ruminate on Dinosaur Jr.
In Michael Azerrad’s “Our Band Could Be Your
Life,” the Dinosaur Jr. chapter closes with an anecdote about
an encounter in 1991 in Massachusetts between Mascis and Barlow,
who were then estranged former bandmates. Nirvana, a band heavily
influenced by Dinosaur Jr., had just broken into the mainstream and
was quickly becoming rock’s next big thing.
“You could have done it, you asshole!” an inebriated
Barlow cried to Mascis.
“They … beat you to it!”
And it’s true. Had Dinosaur Jr. not combusted so
spectacularly in 1989, this show would not have taken place at the
Troubadour. No, it would likely be Dinosaur Jr. touring arenas this
summer instead of Pearl Jam, celebrating the release of a stellar
new album. Instead, J, Lou and Murph toy with the idea of making
the always-difficult reunion record and tour small clubs for the
hardest of hardcore fans.
It disturbs me whenever something so influential is known by so
few people. It’s only fitting that another concertgoer spoke
of Rodney Bingenheimer, who broke dozens of popular bands into the
mainstream over 30 years, yet doesn’t even have a star on the
Walk of Fame to show for it (and the city refuses to give him
one).
Then again, as I stared at J Mascis as he ripped through much of
Dinosaur Jr.’s catalog during the 90 minute set, I remembered
something Barlow once said about his bandmate.
He said that Mascis had trouble coming to terms with fame, even
making a concerted effort to avoid it.
Watching Mascis play his music, eyes closed, not acknowledging
his bandmates and shredding his guitar strings with the enthusiasm
and conviction of a teenager, it suddenly all made sense.
J Mascis didn’t want to be famous. He didn’t want to
sell 10 million copies of “Green Mind.”
He wanted to do things his way, whether his bandmates liked it
or not.
For better or worse, he got what he wanted.
E-mail Humphrey at mhumphrey@media.ucla.edu.