Tuesday, February 17, 2009

BAND: Dinosaur Pile-Up

My quarter-life crisis - a rather sorry ongoing affair which basically seems to involve dressing exactly as I did when I was 15 in a bid to salvage some semblance of identity in a world apparently determined to trample all over it – just found its elixir. Leeds-based three-piece Dinosaur Pile-Up take the chunkiest bits of Marcy Playground and weld them, A-Team style, to Weezer’s melodic chug, creating a scuzzy, laconic slab of 90s slacker-rock delivered in the style of classic grunge-pop trios The Lemonheads and Sebadoh.

However, they’re much more than that. Dinosaur Pile-Up are the sound of wallet-chains, scratty cardigans and mooching around outside your local convenience store snacking on Opal Fruits. They are the soundtrack to wasted summers arguing over whether
Pinkerton could take The Blue Album, bingeing on Kevin Smith movies and prepping yourself for the prospect of seeing Rage Against the Machine at a summer festival (back when Zack had dreads and they still played Tire Me). They evoke memories of collecting each single on coloured 7-inch in readiness for the album, May 4th Star Wars retrospectives, Back to the Future marathons and rushing out to get the new Pearl Jam LP on the day of release. They are the sound of house parties scored to Everclear, Pitchshifter, Terrorvision, Kerbdog, The Wildhearts, Smashing Pumpkins, The Offspring and Silverchair. And by God, they’re absolutely fucking brilliant. They even have a song called Hey, Billy Corgan! which manages to cram not one but two 90s rock references into its title (the second being a quote from the Foo Fighters back when they were still that awesome new band featuring Nirvana’s drummer).

If none of this sounds vaguely appealing… get out. You haven’t got a clue. Dinosaur Pile-Up are the mid-to-late-90s incarnate: a period of rock history never given its due despite the wealth of quality music it produced. If you ever found yourself on the receiving end of a townie’s wit and wisdom (usually involving the words “hippy”, “frib” or “grebo”) for the eternal sin of growing your hair out, you need to investigate this band right now. Not just because they bring the crunching half-time breakdown back to its rightful place in the final 2/3rds of a song, and not just because the last recorded use of their bass-tone was by Robert Sledge on
Whatever and Ever Amen (a factor which nevertheless pleases me no end). But mostly because they are the sound of glorious fucking sunshine in a world overrun by idiotic try-hards who think that Skins has anything to do with anything, and they're every bit as much fun as their name suggests. Join the pile-up now before some awful cunts in the press coin the term “nu-grunge” and ruin it for everyone.