LCD sound system shows my age
(Image credit: Raph PH)
Since moving away from the city last year, I’ve been resentful of returning to London. Not because I don’t like the riverside fun, the warmth of pubs sizzling in the August sun, or the fearlessness of the locals who have fun under almost any circumstances. After all, it’s where most of my friends live and where most of the music in my life happens. My problems with London stem from exactly the same reason I left the city in the first place: I’m just getting a little too old.
While my mid-30s don’t seem as old as I sometimes feel, they do have disadvantages that ten years ago felt like the murmurings of a grey-haired future I hadn’t yet caught a glimpse of. Some aspects of this ageing make me reject the kinds of nuances that are generally seen as tiny obstacles to overcome if you want to have a good time in London. The transport is inconvenient, the drinks and food are insanely expensive, and in general there are just too many people.
Of course, there’s another aspect of getting older that’s hard to shake: the reluctance to accept anything new. Even harder is joining an old band you’ve never connected with before. That’s exactly what happened to me when I made my way, somewhat reluctantly, to Victoria Park in East London to see the latest edition of All Points East, one of the capital’s most exciting outdoor events.
Having been attending the festival for several years, I quickly felt at ease and headed to what is usually the quietest bar (BBC 6 Music Stage). However, when I was told the price of a 330ml can of lager without comment, I felt the urge for a fun spit attempt. The old urge to judge was growing inside me, but the chance to see a band like the Pixies was too good to turn down.
The group stood firm as a well-rehearsed force in front of an enthusiastic crowd. They played most of their biggest hits (although “Debaser” was a notable loss) and complemented wild renditions of “Monkey Gone To Heaven,” “Caribou,” “Where Is My Mind?” and “Here Comes Your Man” with some masterful covers of Jesus and Mary Chain and Neil Young. A professional performance if you’ve ever seen and heard one; the group are masters at putting on a show.
While The Kills provided a welcome diversion with their cheeky guitar-driven songs while we found ourselves waiting in line for yet another overpriced drink, LCD Soundsystem were the real standout of the night. Led by James Murphy, the group inspires true devotion. The electronic pioneers of “Sad Boy House” burst onto the music scene as the indie explosion of the 2000s took hold of both me and most of my inner circle, and somehow passed me by. I always felt that the group simply caught their audience in the middle of a killer descent and secured their undying love forever in the process.
Judging by the age range of the crowd and the tears of joy and sadness in the eyes of my companions, it seemed as though I had missed not only a big boat, but a massive cruise ship with my name written in neon lights, beckoning me on board. But alas, their biggest tracks passed me by without me thinking much more than “my feet are really sore” and “that hot dog was really sensational despite the price”.
It’s one of those moments that, as a journalist, you feel eternally guilty about. Here was a masterful performance by a truly revered band, and a seat near the front of the stage was occupied by a lumbering man who happily swayed along to the beat, his friends constantly asking him what he thought, hoping for a different answer. But when the band paid tribute to restaurant owner and longtime friend of Murphy’s, Justin Chearno, everything changed.
Chearno was a figure in the New York music scene where Murphy and his band gained their first experiences.. The former worked with the band to produce their groundbreaking LP Sound of Silver and above all contributed to the solo on “New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down.” Naturally, Murphy paid tribute to her late friend as the band prepared to slow down, delivering what was arguably one of the most moving performances I’ve seen in years.
Even though it was the second to last song, the connection finally started to form in the pit of my stomach. The loss of a friend, coupled with one of the better songs of the 2000s, made for an incredibly potent cocktail that swallowed me up and took me on a (relatively short) journey. Then, as “All My Friends”—one of the anthems of a generation—began blaring from the PA system and the swirling energy of an explosive crowd finally took off like an unstoppable rocket and I found myself jumping for joy in a circle surrounded by my buddies and a mesh of flags, lights, and that one beautiful hot dog vendor, it all became clear.
The reason we take the dusty train to the smoggy city. The reason we stand on hard ground for six hours at a time and drink expensive, often warm beer. The reason we go to concerts. The reason we even try to live. Friends. Basically, they are all we really have and need, and that is a wisdom that only comes with age.
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