By Tom Birner

Distinct rock movements are harder to track than giant squid, but for brevity's sake, let's say the last discernible one was that of grunge, which effectively buried the glitz and tawdry escapism of the preceding hair scene. Artists suddenly looked inside, often screaming at what they saw. Grunge centered chiefly on anger, doubt and shame, and the mediocrity that bore them. Its heroes were antiheroes: they were bitter, emaciated, reprehensible. Dostoevsky would have dug it.

I'm not sure how it ended. Being in high school, I was pretty busy dropping acid and choking down Pink Floyd. But just after the millennium another movement took shape, one of fashion. We are in its midst; the bands heading this movement are loudly retro or engineer hybridsÊthat, back when rock was freer and more self-sufficient, once were contrasts: dance-rock, disco-rock, pop-punk and so forth.

Now everything sounds overproduced. Real pain has withered to a quiet, complacent defeat softer than Bright Eyes' Conor Oberst's bangs. The Shins are cute, Modest Mouse is flippant, the Killers are arrogant, Wilco is sleepy. Jack White's rage seemed pretty authentic until he married that model, just as Pete Doherty was primed to be the next Sid Vicious before shacking up with a super one. Arcade Fire play fashion shows, Karen O sells more dresses than albums, and music videos and Gap ads have become nearly interchangeable. Lyrics are relayed in a pallid whine (Bright Eyes, Death Cab For Cutie), a salty drone (Franz Ferdinand, Interpol) or a stylized scream (the Hives, the Vines). Even those which reflect angst are often sung with such confidence to seem insincere. I mean when Strokes' singer Julian Casablancas croons, "I want to be forgotten," does anybody actually believe him?

The last time I found myself short of breath at a concert was Iggy Pop's, mainly because he attacks you if you're not throwing stuff at him. Interestingly, these types of quasi-violent bands are as celebrated as ever, as reflected by the Stooges' and the Pixies' recent overexposure, but in a nostalgic, nearly condescending way by original fans who've detoxified with age, and indie kids lazy with intellect. Now the emotion rots in the brain to a fiat, no longer steaming the blood.   

This Friday, Dinosaur Jr. will likely be received in the same manner, though they're probably the most authentically unkempt of the late eighties buzz bands. The outfit always played as if they were starving; the fuzz was real as the budget was low, and, on the remastering of their most potent albums (Dinosaur, You're Living All Over Me, Bug), it's now louder and more riotous than ever.

Dino preceded the grunge scene both by reviving punk and delaying it, as frontman J Mascis bent dirty solos around wretched screams and overwrought moans of inadequacy while Kurt still played kickball. Mascis broke many rules of the anarchist's songbook—most notably by playing a showy, unmapped lead and often drowning savage, romantic lyrics like "let the interests rip apart the understood" in deep-purple squeals. Now Jr.'s original members have reunited into a three-headed boot with which to kick the collective pants of today's generally listless, swaying audience.

Dinosaur Jr.'s emotion is believable. Their sound, like life, is abrasive. It is leaden and arduous and sometimes unfavorable, and between Lou Barlow's feral bass lines and Patrick Murphy's forceful drumming, Mascis's is a voice of imperfection—a sneer that us non–rock stars can truly echo. Irving Plaza, 17 Irving Pl. (at 15th St., 212-777-6800; 9, $30.