Dinosaur Jr.
Glive A Glimpse of what yer not

Sweaty T-shirts now smell of years gone by, past music, sweat is a scent I would like to wear forever, when wonder existed, open mouths, jumping, passing records to friends and feeling great because you were introducing new things. So much melancholy, for a forty-year-old like me, they are images that only bring melancholy.

That smell of sweat I sought in my heroes and a streak of memories can still be sniffed.

People try to return to lo-fi, but the lo-fi of the first Dinosaur screams cannot be reproduced, Neil Young's blended voice, solos without lines but which in heart distortions opened melodic horizons in a mist of sweet chaos. Butterflies in the storm, a bored voice among waves of distortion. A voice, noise, distorted melody with a lot of underlying melancholy.

This is a record, it is an attempt, not even a bad one. But gray hair grows, time passes, the guitars have stopped speaking, the distorted melancholy has passed.

A good attempt, with good numbers. But those who have heard the first Dinosaur screams move on to something else, seeking new little eggs that, when hatched, scream distortions for us little lovers.