LCD Soundsystem, the dance-punk band led by James Murphy, played its final show on Saturday night at Madison Square Garden. The Garden is a huge venue for a scruffy indie act like LCD Soundsystem, a setting worthy of an event, and Murphy and company delivered one: first, a pre-concert ticket controversy and, on Saturday, a show that stretched more than three hours, complete with special guests (three members of Arcade Fire, joining in on backing vocals) and a set list designed for the cognoscenti, including 45:33, a song that, in its recorded version, clocks in at the exact length of its title.
In the rock press, the band's farewell is headline news. Pitchfork marked the occasion by producing an annotated catalogue raisonné, with essays on all 46 studio recordings released in LCD Soundsystem's eight-year-long run. Esquire published an oral history under the heady title "How James Murphy Changed Music." The Onion's A.V. Club, the paper's serious (i.e., not satirical) arts-and-culture supplement, offered an "Open Letter to LCD Soundsystem's James Murphy" from critic Steven Hyden—a deranged fanboy's cri de coeur:
In case you're wondering—I know you're not, but humor me here—I won't be attending the big three-hour LCD Soundsystem send-off concert Saturday at New York's Madison Square Garden. I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty that I didn't get in; unlike seemingly every other one of your fans, I didn't even try to get tickets. Nothing is fucked here, James. I'm fine missing it. It's not like you're dying or something. … C'mon, you know we always loved LCD Soundsystem. You gave us no other choice but to love LCD, because you constructed the band in such a way as to make it impervious to criticism. … You made classic albums; a lot of people seem to think Sound Of Silver was your first masterpiece, but I loved the self-titled debut from 2005, too. … James, you're on the precipice of perhaps LCD Soundsystem's biggest triumph yet, and it's going to be the last. Once again, you've made yourself invincible.
Something is fucked here, James. The lamentations for LCD Soundsystem make little sense, since it's unclear that there's anything to lament. Strictly speaking, a band called LCD Soundsystem never existed. It wasn't a group; it was a pseudonym: Murphy wrote, produced, recorded, and sang every note of every LCD song. Eventually, Murphy whipped a shifting cast of musicians into one of indie's most vigorous and danceable live acts, but there was never any question that this was a solo artist with a backing band. "I don't have to sit there and pretend it's a democracy and really be trying to control everything," Murphy told Tom Breihan of the Village Voice in 2007. "I don't have to do any of that. It's all out on the table: this is how it's going to work, and I don't have to subtly browbeat anyone to get them to do what I want them to do."
What does it mean for a one-man band to disband? Murphy has indicated that he will keep producing records. As best I can tell, he's never said that he's retiring from performing, nor has he ruled out the possibility of dipping into LCD's back catalog at some future date. Perhaps he's planning a hiatus; maybe he'll resurface with a different sound, although given his track record—the single-mindedness with which he's explored rock-flavored dance music with roots in post-punk—I'm doubtful about a stylistic overhaul. In other words, this vaunted farewell is more or less a story of semantics. The crowd at sold-out Garden on Saturday came to say goodbye to LCD Soundsystem the name, not LCD Soundsystem the thing. It was a funeral for a moniker.
Funerals, the figurative kind, are what James Murphy is all about: He's always specialized in elegies. Murphy emerged at the turn of the last decade as the production mastermind behind DFA Records, the fearsomely fashionable Brooklyn-based label that he co-owns. He quickly established himself as a leading indie auteur, marrying the buzzy, busy sound of late-'70s/early-'80s disco-punk to 21st-century digital crispness. With a single brilliant record, the Rapture's sonata-for-cowbell "House of Jealous Lovers," Murphy sent hipster wallflowers stampeding to the dancefloor, transforming the tastes, and untightening the backsides, of white urban bohemia. DFA's music felt new, but it sounded old. Murphy is a revivalist and, like all revivalists, a softie; his records gazed back at the Manhattan downtown scene of a quarter-century earlier—to Talking Heads and Liquid Liquid and ESG—longing for a lost musical utopia that graded into longing for a lost city: the raggedy, arty New York that vanished in the boom-bust-boom cycles of a new gilded age.