REEEEEEEEEE ... When was the last time it had been this bad? Jesus, probably 18 years ago. Second row for Van Halen’s 1984 tour. Those mountains of Marshall amps. The concern, obviously, is the potential permanence of the situation. Hell, look at Dave Pirner and Pete Townshend. Of course, their tinnitus came after years of exposure to high volumes, not after one night at two concerts, earplugs lying forgotten at home in the bathroom drawer, with several beers erasing the good judgment to at least stick cocktail napkins in the ears. REEEEEEEEEE ...

Despite what the header may imply, this wasn’t some sort of rock ‘n’ roll/punk extravaganza in Pittsburgh. No, in a town that rarely gets one good national act within a matter of weeks, J Mascis and the New Bomb Turks hit separate venues on the same goddamn night. Which presents quite a dilemma: On the one hand, there’s the slacker guitar genius of Mascis, touring behind Free So Free, possibly his finest release to date. On the other, you have punk underground legends the New Bomb Turks on their final tour. Ever.

At show number one, Cobra Verde starts the night off with its inspired, if sloppy, brand of bar rock. Former backers of Bob Pollard in Guided By Voices, the Ohioans prove to be a fine rock ‘n’ roll band in their own right, from the infectious opener, “Underpants” (from 1997’s Egomania (Love Songs)), all the way through to the final grungy guitar chord. Singer John Petkovic, physically recalling Joey Ramone, prances and flails around the stage, bellowing his punk-rock Jim Morrison vocals between swigs from a bottle of Yuengling. In his bright red shirt and skinny black tie, Petkovic provides a stark contrast to his jeans-and-flannel comrades, who look as if they just stopped by to hang some drywall. No matter. Lack of personal grooming can be easily overlooked in light of solid chops.

And speaking of solid chops, soon after Cobra Verde depart, a rumpled, longhaired guy appears stage right, shuffling into view with a blue backpack and a wooden chair. J Mascis, guitar god, is his own roadie tonight. He pulls effects pedal after effects pedal out of that blue backpack, kind of like that clown routine you see at the circus, where more and more clowns just keep coming out of that little freakin’ car. There doesn’t seem to be anyone else coming onstage. And Masicis is sitting down. With an acoustic guitar. Shit. No six-string pyrotechnics tonight?

Mascis opens with the new “Someone Said,” gently plucking his guitar and delivering his lines in that cracked, nasal voice of his (“Someone said my freedom was gone,” he sings). While the Reticent One is not blessed with the most powerful of vocal chords, the immediacy of the format proves to be spellbinding over the course of the evening. Who else could plug an acoustic guitar into a fuzzbox, quickly transitioning from gentle strumming into fiery, awe-inspiring solos? Such guitar pyrotechnics would in fact appear repeatedly over the course of the evening, despite the ostensibly “gentle” format. Near the end of the set, Petkovic returns to the stage with bass in hand, accompanied by Cobra Verde’s drummer, for the guitar epic “Ammaring” from 2000’s More Light. Surprisingly, when finally plugged in, Mascis doesn’t have the same impact as when sitting under the spotlight with that jerryrigged acoustic guitar.

A look at the watch reveals 10:30 p.m., and as rock fans know in Pittsburgh, shows at the 31st Street Pub always start late. Hold on kids, we’re going for a double-header.

Shiver and the Cheats, both Pittsburgh bands, deliver serviceable punk sets at the Pub. The Turks hit the stage after midnight, and it’s a blur thereafter. As live punk bands go, the Columbus, Ohio, natives are among the greats. Indeed, by the end of the set you’re ready to call in a priest, ‘cause frontman Eric Davidson must surely be possessed. He jumps, screams, convulses and incites. He jumps into the crowd, up onto the bar, then hops back to the stage again. The song selection really isn’t important, as being in the audience is somewhat akin to sticking a wet finger into an electrical socket and leaving it there. The relentless guitar propulsion and Davidson’s manic shriek pin your ears back like that windblown listener in those old Maxell tape ads. The Turks leave the stage only to come back for encore after encore, even returning for one more after the house lights come up, the clock pushing 2 a.m.

After the show, Davidson hangs out at the merch table, sweating profusely. “Are you doing press?” I ask drunkenly. “Press? You mean someone wants to talk to us?” says Davidson in reply. “Hell, we’ll talk to anyone. I’ll tell you about the time ... ” He continues on manically and unintelligibly, like he hasn’t yet been able to unplug himself after his amped performance. In fact, he was still babbling like a mental patient as we stepped into the cold night air. And then it was just silence. Well, not exactly. REEEEEEEEEE ...

—Matt Ryan