Oh LCD Soundsystem, let me count the ways…

Monday night, I paid a visit to the most dreaded of New York City venues, Terminal 5, to say goodbye to one of my favorite New York City artists, James Murphy’s dance incarnation, LCD Soundsystem. There has been much talk about James Murphy retiring LCD because its choruses hailing house parties and drunk girls didn’t exactly befit a man of his age any longer. Attending Monday night, I couldn’t help but shockingly, and sadly, feel the same way. There was something awkward hearing the 41 year old Murphy proclaim how much he liked drunk girls and how dearly he wished Daft Punk would play at his house. As well, there was something odd about myself singing along to it.

In 2007, I saw LCD at the Bowery Ballroom here in NYC. Here’s what I had to say:

Don’t tell the NYPD, but there was dancing at the Bowery Ballroom last night. When you leave a concert pouring sweat and your clothes half torn off, you know it was a good show. My friend turned to me once the jumping was over and exclaimed, “You look like you’ve been attacked!” My shirt was pulled off my shoulders, my hair was a mess and someone punched me in the face. And you know what, I didn’t care.

Monday night, I cared. To be frank, some of the reason for the following has to do with the fact that I was in a bit of funk but also that like Murphy, I was feeling my age. This time, instead of having just travelled into the city to see LCD from my parent’s house, I was going to the show from work. I was tired and hadn’t heeded my own advice about what to wear to an LCD show (“Wear light clothes, shoes to jump around in, and ladies, forget the purse at home.”). I spent the show standing towards the back, mainly because of Terminal 5′s awful site lines that meant otherwise I wouldn’t be able to see the stage but also because I was unwilling to get sucked into the pit filled with bros (which The Modern Age expands on) and be trampled on. Alas, alack, time is a cruel mistress, yada yada.

But enough with the old fogey stuff, what really matters is that James Murphy fucking rocks. There is no denying it. He turned Terminal 5 into an out and out dance hall Monday night, and continues to blow the roof off the place every night this week. From my perch in the back I saw people straggling to get free of the crowd, arms lifted in exuberant liberation once they were rid of the sweat of a thousand dudes, having looked like they just exited a shower. I saw people gushing blood all over the floor begging security guards to let them back into the masses. I saw people falling over stone drunk, being hoisted out the side door sideways, and I am being quite literal there. There was crying and screaming and laughing and above all else, there was joy. So much happiness and thankfulness to a man who gave us all nights we’ll never forget, who soundtracked our parties (full of drunk girls), road trips and karaoke nights and who sang just enough like Kermit the Frog to give us this.

So from the bottom of my heart, thank you James Murphy. You’ll never stop being the man of my disco-coated dreams.