LCD Soundsystem "All My Friends"

If, after today’s release of Sound of Silver, James Murphy were still only the same hipster smartass who introduced himself to the world with the ironic “Losing My Edge,” or just the guy who writes intense jams devoted to getting bodies on the floor (”Movement,” “Disco Infiltrator”) or even a shameless fanboy who makes mirror-image Eno pastiches (”Great Release”) and also sings like Mark E. Smith, that’d be one thing. Actually, that was the thing that he was (at least to me) before Silver—someone who could certainly contextualize a scene and thus contribute to its longevity, but also tended to fall into the same cool distance that he was ostensibly documenting. Silver, however, is the record where Murphy finally starts directly addressing, nay situating, the individual within the scene with the level of detail and nuance he previously devoted to the instrumentation that colors it. Silver has Murphy’s two most affecting, dare I say sensitive, moments to date within its runtime—”Someone Great,” which Matthew has already properly explained, and “All My Friends” (mp3), a wonderful track that I’ll try to quickly do justice to here. The stumbling and self-overlapping, and might I mention insidious piano motif, which gradually allows snapping drum machines and periodic, gradually increasing guitars to give it shape, clearly owes much to the sinuous, minimalist rhythms of New Order’s “Blue Monday,” but only in structural terms. Sure, it’s a tightly looped piano, but it still feels real nonetheless—the resonance of the instrument (and oh, it’s the most resonant instrument) is untainted by the fact that the same small number of notes is repeated incessantly. Thematically, its frenzy mirrors the feeling of an insane rush that we realize only retroactively, after we’ve busied ourselves to the point of distraction for so long that we’ve clearly lost sight of what might be more important. There’s one line in this song that hit me in an autobiographical spot the first time I heard it, and has only gained potency with each listen: “you spend the first five years trying to get with the plan, and the next five years trying to be with your friends again.” More than any single lyric of recent vintage, this one pretty perfectly describes my current situation, one which I’ll spare you for the sake of time. Just know that it’s 6 years, not 5, and I’m in the first year of the second set. The best thing about Silver is that Murphy has realized that the same types of ritualistic activities he ogled and recreated on his first record and scattered pre-Silver singles—from simple dance moves and club positioning to struggles for acceptance and the subsequent clash of sameness—can also be found in the parts of life that take place during the days and afternoons. They’re lengthier, harder to spot, and don’t change as rapidly, but they’re ultimately much more important and have much more serious ramifications for failure. That Murphy has not only located a few of them, but can elaborate with both lyrical simplicity and emotional seriousness about them, is a good sign.

Buy Sound of Silver here.

Read a very entertaining “real-time review” of the Silver here at the always-great Green Pea-Ness.