When a grey and somewhat ageing Dinosaur Jr. announced a fully-fledged reunion in 2005, including new material from the original line-up for the first time since 1988's Bug, the reception was far from overwhelmingly positive. In many ways, as has become something of a tradition with most "legendary" reunions (i.e.Pixies, Pavement, Slint) the initial reaction was a strange — though by no means unexpected — combination of suspicion and raw anticipation.
In other words, the fans appeared equally split — divided into those fearing a tainted legacy and those who could barely contain almost bedwettable excitement. And still, the good intentions of both stemmed from an identical source: the tail-ends of the 1980s, when J Mascis's alt-rock trio irrevocably changed the face of guitar music forever. It was in one of these years, 1987, that their most brilliant statement was forged.
Flanked by years candidly epitomised by their landmark recordings — The Queen Is Dead and Daydream Nation — You're Living All Over Me was not only the missing link between hardcore punk, grunge and beyond, it also stood as a much-needed distraction in a universe slowly coming to terms with Madonna, Thatcher securing a third term and BBC weatherman Michael Fish's retrospectively amusing manslaughter. While Moz and Co. were just about single-handedly penetrating the zeitgeist of Thatcherite Britain, Stateside, Dinosaur Jr. were in the process of giving birth to the next.
And so it goes: whilst their 1985 debut album merely hinted at future brilliance, YLAOM remains Dinosaur Jr.'s track-by-track masterclass in noise punk indie pop, a wholly interchangeable non-term that only the Pixies (who else?) could lay claim to. By merging a carefully considered balance of levelling riffs, starry-eyed, nonchalant subject matter ("I'll be grazing by your window, please come pat me on the head / Just want to find out why you're nice to me for") ripping solos and pure — unashamedly pop — chord progressions, it simply sounded like nothing else out there. It defied comparison in almost every way: never before had a record distilled so many opposing genres without even remotely hinting at pastiche or clumsy imitation.
In reality, the alchemical formula went much further: Mascis's slightly flat, incomparably lazy vocal delivery, Lou Barlow's artlessly hostile bass-playing and Murph's frankly powerhouse drumming coalesced to create a virtually unbeatable set-up from the fore. So much so, for an album that bolts forth courtesy of the spine-tinglingly effervescent 'Little Fury Things' and climaxes with a thoroughly mesmerising cover of The Cure's 'Just Like Heaven', you would be well placed to find a single dud amongst the likes of 'Raisans' and the pleasantly bizarre 'In A Jar'.
In a perfect world, 'Sludgefeast', too, would be considered — along with 'Lady In Red' — something of a musical litmus-test to determine a person's taste, sense and/or sanity. It is that mind-bogglingly accomplished. And just as vitally, Barlow's overtly experimental 'Poledo' stands its own ground and then some; the ukulele-wielding bassist bolding intersecting "found sounds" with an intentionally shoddy, lo-fi recording; a no-frills approach that he would continue with greater success with Sebadoh et al. following his acrimonious expulsion from Dinosaur Jr. circa '89.
While the likes of Public Enemy were properly sticking it to the man, Mascis, Barlow and Murph just wanted to let off steam: with lyrics that made Buddy Holly sound like Maynard James Keenan, four-chord anthems guided by a bona fide guitar hero and some of the finest melodies ever committed to tape, it was a record that reeked — and reeks still — of endless summer, ripped jeans and beat-up Stratocasters. Better still, along with say, the Ramones' 1976 self-titled and innumerable Buddy Holly and The Crickets compilations, it remains one the most affecting collections of songs about triviality ever assembled.
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