Pitchfork

After issuing a couple of decent albums in the early '90s (Green Mind and Where You Been), J Mascis and Dinosaur Jr receded into irrelevance. As the band gradually became a front for Mascis' solo musings, Dinosaur Jr failed to live up to the standard set in its SST days with You're Living All Over Me and Bug-- albums that inspired legions of young upstarts to brandish the indie rock mantle, and helped set the stage for the alterna-rock revolution that followed. J Mascis stayed holed-up in his Amherst studio, stubbornly true to his project of crafting a post-Neil Young vision of punk rock, and Dinosaur Jr fizzled out.

Buoyed by the lethargy embodied in his laconic vocal delivery and tossed-off solos-- the qualities that distinguished Mascis as the godfather of slacker rock-- this album sounds nothing short of triumphant. Which is funny, because aside from sounding the most excited and invigorated he has in years, J Mascis does little different on More Light. His new deal with Ultimatum Music may have a lot to do with his newfound work ethic, but the enlistment of fellow recluse Kevin Shields of My Bloody Valentine and others certainly had to have helped the creative juices flow.

Shields helped produce the album and lends his glide guitar to several tracks, while Andy Wilkinson, who has worked with the Boo Radleys, My Bloody Valentine, and the Super Furry Animals was brought in to handle mixing duties. One might suppose that this is what's meant by "The Fog;" there's no backing band of that name to speak of, just a peculiar cast of characters that contribute to More Light's classicist guitar-driven environment.

Guided By Voices' Bob Pollard lends backing vocals to three tracks, the first of which is the anthemic opener "Sameday," a slice of melodic riffage that muses lyrically upon the vagrancy of fruitless living. This is followed by the lush, synthetic orchestrations of "Waistin'" and the chunky rock of "Where'd You Go," both of which further address the indolence that has equally characterized and plagued Mascis. But the closing title track is the most surprising-- a Shields-crafted guitar maelstrom that hurls Mascis' idiosyncratic songwriting into a wind tunnel.

The most impressive aspect of More Light is its consistency; Mascis pulls out memorable melody after melody as the album progresses, and while he does little more than breathe refreshing life into the wanking ghost of Dinosaur Jr, it seems plain that he's affirming his role and tradition at a time when indie rock doesn't seem to know what to do with itself. More Light doesn't break any new ground, but it tidies up the landscape, legitimizing an iconic status that has eluded Mascis for the better part of the past decade. Call it a comeback.