Beyond was the left hook of 2007. Dinosaur Jr. had been pretty much missing for a decade. Bassist Lou Barlow was kicked out in 1989 to form Sebadoh and drummer Murph took off in ’93. Since then, frontman J Mascis kept the name alive for a couple more albums and the occasional show, but it seemed to everyone but the eternally optimistic that the band was done. But even when rumors of a reunion began circling, there was little hope for new material—a transparent cash grab to the jaded. Even when a new album was announced, there wasn’t a huge amount of furor; descending quality of records in the 90s hinted that Mascis’ best stuff was behind him. But then we listened to Beyond and we were stunned. Not only was it one of the best rock albums of the year, but it was the band’s best since You’re Living All Over Me from 1987. Mascis, Barlow and Murph were back, and we couldn’t believe our ears. Not in an “oh, shit, are they still relevant?” sort of way, but rather a “these guys still write and sound great” way. They didn’t become the, ahem, dinosaurs we feared.
Farm proves it wasn’t a one-shot, either. This and Beyond is the sound of a collective reinvigorated and ready for action. Even with diminished returns and a few problems, it’s a reliably solid entry in their canon; calling it a “typical” Dinosaur Jr. album is both backhanded and somewhat inaccurate. There are far fewer surprises (and memorable tunes) here than on Beyond, but it still sounds deliberate and controlled, the result that the band was aiming for, and another notch in their belt. Even if it doesn’t blow you away, I doubt you’ll walk away unsatisfied.
As usual, they get the ball rolling with their tighter and heavier side, pounding through sheets of melodic fuzz on “Pieces” and “I Want You to Know.” The viscous pummeling comes with Mascis’ trademark sensitive slacker drawl, mimicking their well-loved heart friction. “Pieces”’ rumbling bridge and the jerky guitar sequence leading up to “I Want You to Know”’s chorus are musical highlights—the band’s melodies are never impenetrable, but they can become swampy at length. On “Ocean in the Way,” the most memorable bit is when the tempo slows, the guitar sounds almost clean and there are gaps in the noise.
Such highpoints demonstrate one of the two chief problems on Farm. Because Dinosaur Jr. isn’t interested in abandoning their roots (applaud them, please), there’s a ringing familiarity to many of these songs. Even the best ones echo our record collection. Just as many of their best moments in the 90s came courtesy of pace-changers, so too does Farm excel when their identity is shed in favor of newly inspired tricks. It also doesn’t help matters that since it runs more than an hour, the second half has a tendency to drag, reducing serviceable songs to the drudge of filler. More variety or more careful pruning might have helped Farm approach Beyond’s plateau.
On that variety side we crave, we get Barlow, who contributed two of the twelve tracks. Coming after “Plans,” “Your Weather” opens with a refreshingly loud and robotic stomp, executed by his blurry bass and Murph’s huge cymbal fills. It’s lacking a great chorus, but the verses stand apart with original zeal. “Imagination Blind” follows suit with more percussive clatter and spaced out blasts of distortion. Neither one is a Dino classic by any stretch, but their individuality is refreshing. A shame, then, that “Blind” ends the album instead of the second-to-last epic jam “I Don’t Wanna Go There” when it would have been better served in the ninth or tenth spot.
Speaking of jams, there lies another surprise. Considering the quibble of overlength and the tendency to meander the same style set ad infintium, the longer tracks are all among the album’s watershed moments. “I Don’t Wanna Go There” has already become a live staple (with a searing extended solo lasting more than four minutes), “Plans” grinds away its world-weary attitude with exceptional guitar flourishes and “Said the People” has a strong vocal pull, with Mascis’ adenoidal whine being put to good use singing, “I’ve been staring, I’ve been staring in the space/All this time, not a smile, such a waste…All the people drag me down.” As a lyricist, Mascis has always dealt in vague solipsism and quandaries, but it always fit into his slacker ethos. As the catalogue builds up, though, rehashing the same old ideas can become burdensome, but careful phrasing and inflection help. “Said the People” is forgiven of such sins.
Solos on second side numbers like “There’s No Here” and “Friends” can be a bit tedious, but positioning is a factor as much as writing/performance. Notice how a solid effort like “See You” is amplified for its more cutting guitar edge and trilling effects before “I Don’t Wanna Go There”’s greasy sludge. But then notice how you don’t really care. A good Dinosaur Jr. album is precisely that, and just because it doesn’t blow your mind (and speakers) the way that their best do doesn’t mean the band is running out of steam. Mascis will never escape the overused Neil Young comparisons courtesy of his vocal tone and boggy reverb (though, if anything, Barlow actually sounds more like Young singing), but if he were wise, he’d do his best not to escape the company of Barlow and Murph. The latter rocked with the Lemonheads, Sebadoh had several terrific songs and Dinosaur Jr. wasn’t awful when only Mascis remained from the original lineup, but these three reach their peaks as a single unit. The grey in Mascis’ long hair is finally matching the grizzle in his guitar, but with Barlow and Murph filling the gaps with gorgeous, grungy noise, they’ll be tough to beat for as long as they wish.
