3/5 Stars

When Amherst, Mass., saw the formation of an alt-rock band called Dinosaur Jr. in Sept. 1984, the University of Massachusetts students who saw the performance couldn’t have had any idea that the three-piece would come to define the genre.

Compared to the other underground acts of the ‘80s, Dinosaur Jr. — forced to change its name after a legal dispute — doesn’t hesitate to exhibit its classic rock influence and isn’t afraid to utilize feedback and high volume. The band truly created its own genre: not quite punk, not quite rock, not quite pop. It’s alternative, and when groups like Nirvana cite it as an influence, it’s a good alternative.

After seven records, multiple lineup changes and countless arguments, the monolithic band parted ways in 1997. In 2005, the original lineup of singer/songwriter and guitarist J Mascis, bassist Lou Barlow and drummer Murph reunited and exploded back onto the scene.

Farm is the band’s ninth release but the first on indie record label Jagjaguwar, and while it lacks the surprise and fire of the 2007 reunion album Beyond, it’s proof that bands can improve with age.

The album picks up quickly, immediately diving into the maelstrom of melody and steady drumming of “Pieces,” quite possibly its best track. It sounds just as distorted and driving as Dinosaur Jr. should, riding a wave of guitar and pummeling bass.

Flowing “wah-wah” guitar solos on tracks like “Over It” and “I Don’t Wanna Go There” deploy the band’s tried and true formula for success, but there’s a vague sense of the reborn urgency carrying over from Beyond that puts any qualms of repackaging to rest.

The melodic urgency contrasts sharply with Mascis’s mumbling and lazy vocal styling, which worked well for the band in the past but can come off as tired in the context of this new album. Dinosaur Jr. is a band that’s been through a lot, and unfortunately, the 25 years of wear-and-tear can sporadically peak through in the album.

A sense of near-tenderness emerges in both “Plans” and “Said The People,” soulful ballads that clock in at nearly seven minutes each. When Mascis chokes out his simple chorus of “save me,” it’s impossible to avoid remembering what it’s like to try to be strong.

While Farm might not reach the level of the earlier classics You’re Living All Over Me (1987) or Bug (1988) or be an instant attention-grabber, it’s a solid record with few colorless moments.

Reach reporter Nick Feldman at arts@dailyuw.com.