We were among the first in the alley, half an hour before the Vicar St. doors opened, no more than seven of us. The couple next to me busied themselves rolling joints, and I crouched  against the wall. 

My earliest memories of Dinosaur Jr. were from the chancleta Christmas days back in the Miami of 2009. J Mascis’ mellow, melancholy voice filled the back-and-forth car rides between  our house and my grandparents’ Gables apartment. It would turn out to be my grandpa’s last  Christmas, and I hitched along on many of the frequent rides my dad would take to Abi and  Abo’s to help out. Dinosaur Jr.’s second reunion album, Farm, had been released earlier in the  year. On one visit my dad showed me the “Over It” music video on Abo’s computer and pointed  out Mike Watt’s cameo. I didn’t really know who that was, but I thought it was great he showed  up anyway. 

When I think of Dinosaur Jr, I think of how sometimes there’s a lot to be said in not saying much at all. J Mascis is infamously reserved in interviews, and he only seems to stray  away from one-word answers in moments of particular inspiration. The passion behind the band  comes from the deafening instrumentation. To me it represents the kind of catharsis one can still  find in moments of silence or timidity. As J’s singing leads me to believe, sometimes words can be whispered and thoughts can be screamed.

“When I think of Dinosaur Jr, I think of how sometimes there’s a lot to be said in not saying much at all”

Once we started piling into the venue from the bars, I found an opening to lean right on the railing in front of bassist Lou Barlow’s empty space. Mascis’ amp-wall was all the way to my  left, and Murph’s drum kit was center-stage. I saw Murph (eternally-dressed in khaki shorts) and Barlow watching from the wings as the crowd started flooding in, before the opening band—Garcia Peoples—came out. Barlow and Murph both watched at least a number from the Peoples in between sips of water. The reclusive Mascis only showed a corner of his face to ask what seemed like a question about one of his guitars. The man he spoke to nonchalantly walked on stage to  grab a guitar for him mid-song. 

After Garcia Peoples’ performance, the crew packed away the smaller amps, leaving the  Marshall walls. A bouncer handed out earplugs to some of us at the front. I decided, in a typical  and fashionable stupidity, to brave the sonic tsunami and keep my ears open. 

Murph and Barlow smiled as the trio walked on stage. J awkwardly hunched his way over to his spot. Mascis mouthed hello into the mic, in a deep and playful voice, Barlow said a few full sentences to convey the band’s gratitude, and they went right into the fire with “The Lung.” It’s  a mostly instrumental number (somewhat of a younger sibling to The Replacements’ “Seen Your  Video”), but J’s silence definitely was screaming. Then the unmistakable voice kicked in. 

After a few numbers, including Barlow’s tender “Garden” from 2021’s Sweep It Into Space, J threw his first pick into the crowd (he’d throw his second towards the end of the  show and keep the third to himself). “That doesn’t happen often,” Barlow joked. I’ve heard someone say the fact that J resists the inclination towards so many basic social skills makes him paradoxically charismatic, and I tend to agree. 

At the start of “Start Choppin’” a very drunk woman pushed her way to the front of the standing room, elbowed me into the railing a few times, and created enough room to squeeze between me and the person to my right. I saw some of her friends looking for her at the center of the increasingly dense crowd, and behind them were some people being carried around, swimming over the masses. The woman to my right kept shoving just long enough to stay at the  front during the band’s two most popular numbers, but by the end of “Feel the Pain,” she had receded back into the faceless crowd.

“Like most great bands, they don’t mind showing that they’re a mess”

Barlow said a brief introduction for “Mountain Man,” one of the oldest songs they  performed, and they began hammering their way through it, Murph especially. Murph’s glasses  flew halfway off his face in the middle of the number, and between beating his kit, he knocked  them onto the floor. Despite somehow maintaining the energy level of a man half his age, with  his casual clothes and mirror-like bald head, Murph reminded me of Abo and the old beach  vacations we went on when I so much younger. 

“What do you wanna hear next?” Mascis said towards the end, to all the rowdy voices  that had been screaming “Sludgefeast” for what felt like the whole show. They kept screaming  the same, and the band burst onto “Freak Scene” instead. He’d indulge them in the encore, but  first he still had some screams to whisper. “Freak Scene,” like much of Dinosaur Jr.’s best,  thrives in paradox. It orbits the collisions of friends, the fragility and strength that define some of  the most powerful bonds: 

Like most great bands, they don’t mind showing that they’re a mess, but the waves of  sound keep on crashing into us, and the drumming heart keeps on beating until the end.