LCD Soundsystem “American Dream”
The very first time I saw James Murphy — it would have been early in 2001 — he was entering the tiny South Williamsburg bathroom that I was exiting. We were both wearing boxers and white t-shirts which obviously sounds strange as I type the words but which made perfect sense at the time. It was very late, closer to dawn than midnight. I was staying at my girlfriend’s apartment and James was there because he somehow knew her roommate. It was barely a moment — the sort of nothing that you’d normally forget if it hadn’t been for everything else that happened afterwards.
Months later, when we briefly, properly met though work, I realized it was the same James guy I’d passed late that one night. I am not sure whether it was during my first or second impression, but I recall thinking that he was an imprecise man. He didn’t talk a whole lot. He seemed to hide a bit behind his hair and, possibly, his hangover. But when he did speak or when he asked a question, it was indirect, like he was less interested in whatever the conversation was but deeply interested in something adjacent. And I say “imprecise” because most everything about his appearance — his hair, his shirt, his expression, his pants — all felt undecided. I couldn’t tell whether his hair was thoughtfully tousled or just shaggy dog bedhead. I couldn’t tell whether he’d not changed his shirt in days or whether that was just his style. I couldn’t tell whether he was an ex-athlete or somebody who’d never once considered exercise.
So many years later, it’s hard to figure out which of my memories are true and which are apocryphal. I only met James Murphy a few times in my life. We were never friends. We were never alone. Our conversations were never substantial. Also, now that I have heard so much of his music, read interviews with him and seen his face in magazines, it’s not so easy separating the narrative from the facts. I remember when I figured out that James Murphy was the same guy who’d produced the Turing Machine album, which I had played on repeat in 2000. That happened later in 2001, after the bathroom incident, while we were sitting around a table, discussing The Rapture’s “House of Jealous Lovers.”
That day, at that table, talking about the single that would soon launch DFA into the stratosphere, somebody mentioned of Turing Machine and — boom — something clicked for me. It was the same guy. James! Yes, I had even seen his band, Speedking, play live one time! But that was not important. What was important in 2001 at that table was that James Murphy was that guy. That guy — the guy who was in his boxers, who DJ’ed at that Lower East Side druggy, hipster dance bar — was the same one from Speedking and the Turing Machine album and the Le Tigre “Deceptacon” remix and now, “House of Jealous Lovers.” It was all the same guy.
In that moment, I also realized something else: I was dead wrong about his imprecision. Whatever signals I was receiving in that hallway, outside the bathroom about James Murphy were noise or misdirection. It would take a minute for that to become clear. But, in 2002, from the moment the guitar and feedback swirl on “Losing My Edge” give way to the hollow, rubbery bass, tinny high hat and clipped vocals, I understood that James Murphy was a man of absolute precision. Every sound on every song on every one of his records are born from lucid, knowing intent.
If I received “Losing My Edge” as a wonderfully, painfully accurate novelty track and “House of Jealous Lovers” as a feat of design and engineering, I had no answer for “Yr City’s a Sucker.” That ten minute B-side was an indomitable flex. The bass was perfection. The guitars were salvaged from either Factory Records or some Goth club in London. But, in either case, they were of excellent vintage. The cowbell. Those handclaps. The chorus laughing “Ha Ha Ha Ha.” The cheap, New Wave synth program. I never wanted that song to end. And, even when it did, fortunately for me, it was still just the beginning.
Between 2002 and 2005, James Murphy produced The Rapture’s “Echoes” while LCD Soundsystem released a half dozen flawless singles and one now legendary, debut album. Simultaneously, DFA produced or remixed another twenty plus good to otherworldly dance singles, including the Coke & Molly rush of “Get Up/Say What” by Pixeltan and the oozing Euro-skank of “Casual Friday” by Black Leotard Front. Even as someone who did not take drugs and who rarely danced, I was amazed by the effect that LCD Soundsystem and DFA had on people’s bodies. For the better part of a decade, Williamsburg was DFA’s Universe, while parts of Brooklyn and most of the Lower East Side of Manhattan were its suburbs.
Following this fertile period, LCD Soundsystem returned in 2007 with “Sound of Silver,” arguably their masterpiece. It was the work of an artist in full control. It’s an almost middle-aged man dunking on the kids he’s playing pick-up with. It’s 1990-91 Jordan. It’s 2012-13 Lebron. It’s 1962-63 Wilt. The beats sound effortless. The layers appear and disappear at perfect moments. And even though most of the record is just James Murphy, it sounds like a live wire band playing with pet robots that they had coded themselves. Living in New York and approaching middle age myself in 2007, “Sound of Silver” felt keenly true and aware of its moment and superpower. It played in the East end of London in the clubs, in Brooklyn apartments and on NPR. It begged for heady discussion but also boasted unmistakable bangers. It was equal parts brain and ass.
Three years later, “This is Happening,” arrived, more refined and economical than its predecessor. There was a sense that it was less revelatory than “Sound of Silver,” but this was more a matter of chronology and the shock of the new rather than an indictment of the music. The magical well that made “Sound of Silver” ran deep and “This is Happening” was sourced from the same water supply. It may sound less disruptive than its forebears, but it also sounds more self-assured. James Murphy turned forty the year of its release. His impossible pace from the early 2000s slowed, and with success, he traded recording for touring. He produced and remixed less. There were fewer B-sides. There was even talk of an early retirement. Meanwhile, his earliest of fans were getting married, having kids and moving into luxury apartments in new construction along the Williamsburg waterfront. They were out at clubs less and the hangovers felt more expensive.
That summer of 2010, a month after “This is Happening” was released, I opened the window to my apartment in Long Island City, Queens. I could hear the sounds of a nearby bass guitar and some programmed drumbeats. An obscure disco song transitioned into something that sounded like The Au Pairs. I was confused. I wondered whether it was a neighbor with uncanny taste and a great stereo system. And so, I walked outside of my apartment, past the Queens county court and towards PS1, the daring but diminutive little sister museum to Manhattan’s MOMA. As I walked closer, my body was pulled into the sound. It became clearer to me what the music was. James Murphy was DJing.
I ambled around the block for an hour or so, getting to experience his DJ set from a hundred feet away, bouncing a bit with the bass. In the months that would follow, there was more and more talk of LCD disbanding and James Murphy hitting reset. He’d achieved so many of his goals for the band but, moreover, the costs of touring, partying and sleeplessness were getting higher. And, soon enough, it happened. In the Spring of 2011, LCD Soundsystem played Madison Square Garden for what was billed as their final show. It seemed like a celebration more than a funeral. I was not there, but I’ve heard the recordings and seen the videos. My own farewell was that DJ set in Queens. I could hear and feel the party, but I experienced it mostly, aline, in my head and my body. That felt appropriate to me.
Two decades removed from those earliest of impressions, the challenge in writing about James Murphy is in part a challenge of psychiatry — how well can I parse memory. But it is also a challenge of ego — how well can I avoid projection and can I write without sounding like the desperate subject from “Losing My Edge” or like I am plagiarizing “All My Friends.” I can be guilty of sentiment and mythmaking. I already have done so many times over. I will certainly endeavor to stick to the facts and feelings as I recall them. However, I’d also suggest that my own nostalgia and middle-aged malaise are probably useful when considering “American Dream.”
Although rumors of LCD Soundsystem’s return began a couple of years prior, the proof did not arrive until 2017, when we first heard “Call the Police.” By this point, I had left New York altogether and was married with three children. James Murphy was also married, with a young son, semi-sober and with side-hustles as a partner in a wine bar, a failed redesigner the sound of New York’s subway turnstiles and a coffee manufacturer. To say that my interest in LCD Soundsystem had waned would be honest but not completely accurate. The truth was that I had little interest in anything outside of my family and my work in 2017. I still bought records most every week and listened to music every day. But, my preoccupation with the new had practically vanished in middle-age. And yet, in spite of my relative disinterest, when I first heard that song on the radio and it sounded so massive — almost like U2, but with a bottom and a wit that U2 could never had — I sat up. “Call the Police” was unlike anything LCD Soudsystem had made before. That guy — James Murphy — had returned.
“American Dream” proved to be a total amalgamation of the early influences that had come to define James Murphy. Whereas on previous LCD Soundsystem albums you could hear nods and winks to those sources, “American Dream” is drenched in romantic, early New Wave and arty, intellectual Post-Punk. The beats are still rich, but they are generally complements to other instruments on an album that sounds like a reimagined soundtrack for a John Hughes’ film. James’ voice, previously beloved for its limits, sounds healthy and flexible in 2017. He plays it deeper and richer, like aging Bowie. And he also successfully tries on a rather supple falsetto. The time away helped noticeably in this department. And the guitars, which were often used rhythmically or as added noise on previous LCD albums, are used as melodic and tonal leads on “American Dream.” While James Murphy often spoke of his affection for “Berlin Bowie” or for Can and Neu! in the press and in his music, rarely did he evoke them in his music. But, on “American Dream,” the searing guitar sound absolutely resembles Robert Fripp. And the free, negative space calls to mind his favorite German bands.
The stylistic references and appropriation is useful for an album that is looking back and confronting the probability that there may be more yesterdays than tomorrows. :American Dream” will unmistakably remind the listener of Bauhaus for one moment, then The Fall, Suicide for parts and, perhaps as much as any band, Eno-era Talking Heads. I employ name checks not to cheapen the accomplishment or provide lazy comparison but rather to describe how the artist seems to be picking through what’s been in his attic for years and his dreams at that very moment. In 2017, James Murphy was clearly capable of making another “North American Scum” or “Give it Up.” But, he didn’t reform his band for that sort of nostalgia. Throughout “American Dream,” he wonders about his past — times he was wrong, times he was wronged, times when he cannot figure out the point of it all. But, it’s not a halftime eulogy. Like most dreams, it has a precise feel but a diffuse, uncertain meaning.
“Oh Baby,” the album’s opener, is the first of a trio of big, wistful, dreamy ballads — along with “I Used To” and “American Dream.” Though melodically distinct, they each share a similar grandeur and pace. On “Oh Baby,” James’ voice is front and center, carrying the weight of a romantic New Wave bummer, like a great, lost Spandau Ballet or OMD deep cut. On “I Used To,” the tempo ticks up a notch, but only from first to second gear. Wrapped around a slinky bass, synth and smoke, James is stuck between romanticizing the past, eclipsing the past, living in the present and fearing the future. It is decidedly middle-aged ennui, but still tragically relatable.
The title track, which follows several bigger and faster numbers, speeds up a waltz from the morning after the night before. With its thick bass and chiming keys, you almost feel like you are in church. But this church is the Limelight dance club of the early 90s. James reaches for that memory using his best falsetto. And he nails it — a lovely coda for a trio of songs do not sound as though they were born from the same time (2002-2011) or place (Brooklyn and the Lower East Side) as the band’s first go around. Rather, they sound as if they were born from dreams about the 80s — from the ambivalence and regret that only surfaced in the decades that followed.
While Murphy hasn’t lost his knack for skanky beats, “American Dream” is built on synth, vocals and — yes — guitar. And because Matt Thornley is sculptural where Tyler Pope was funky, LCD give off Bowie “Scary Monsters” vibes for much of the album. But if most of the songs on “American Dream” were made for 3am, “Tonight” is the outlier — designed for the hours when the high is still getting higher. The beat is bouncy, like a hand slap on a bare, round ass.
On the album’s second half, there is the breathless single, “Call the Police,” which is as anthemic as U2 and as nervy as Franz Ferdinand. It’s a surprising and astonishing feat from a band that had never attempted a straight-faced Rock song before. If “All my Friends” was the pre-mid-life crisis in waiting, “Call the Police” is the aftermath, when you realize that you know nothing and that everything means nothing anyways. It’s a terrifying, daring, exuberant seven minutes.
Following that detonation, but before the final eulogy, the band gets very alive for “Emotional Haircut.” Loud, fiery and fast, they sound straight out of late 70s Manchester. The singer tosses off one liners and unnerved asides while the band responds, shouting the title refrain. Meanwhile the fire picks up and burns, until a veritable drum circle breaks out, surrounded by more guitar flames. LCD sound berserk and completely fun — like Can or, even, Turing Machine at their very best. They shut.the.fucking.party.down.
Actually, the party that feels like a dream that feels like a party stops twice on “American Dream.” The first time is midway through on “How Do You Sleep,” a nine minute, boiling ocean of resentment, probably aimed at Tim Goldsworthy, James Murphy’s former partner. More than anything Murphy ever made, this one resembles the second P.I.L. record — dark and cynical and suffocating. And yet, there are fond memories and humanity that, at times, can make it sound like an olive branch.
The second, and final stop, is “Black Screen,” a personal lament and public eulogy for Murphy’s hero (and friend), David Bowie. The beat, if you can call it that, is glacial. The synthesizer, at least for the first half, is funereal. For over seven minutes, we hear a plodding, heavy-hearted meditation from a man who received so much from his idol — art, inspiration and advice — but whose opportunity to honor it was cut short. Tired of the living in his own head, he eventually looks upward into space for The Star Man. He stops talking and lets the bass and piano come forward. It’s almost a lonely moment for James Murphy, but his friend and bandmate, Al Doyle, sticks around until the conclusion. Murphy recorded most of “American Dream” on his own. Others contributed significantly to specific songs, but Doyle was the one other person around for most every tracks. There’s something especially comforting in knowing that the singer had his friend nearby for this forlorn coda.
It’s been over five years since James Murphy resuscitated LCD Soundsystem and over three since they released their fourth album. It took me several turns before I could appreciate “American Dream,” even though I relished several of the songs instantly. The album can feel slow and sprawling at times — exhausted and exhausting. Nevertheless, I consider it a profound work of middle-aged art. It is also the most human of the LCD albums, by a long shot. Its heart is heavier and its curiosity deeper. And even in its sprawl, I sense that “American Dream” is precisely the record that James Murphy wanted to make. Every word and note sounds intentional. Under the five o’clock shadow, the tousled hair and the untucked shirt remains a precise man. That time I kind of met James Murphy in the bathroom in 2001 and suggested otherwise — I was wrong.