We pull our eyes away from Arthur Russell's little-song-that-could and back to the pressing matters of making the week fall away one drink at a time, and still remember the Peaches mantra that we started the evening with. There is a song over at the bar looking at us, not really up or down or kindly, but just looking straight at us. We end up standing next to this song, staring back at it.

James Murphy, owner and producer of DFA Records and here the sole member of LCD Soudsystem, bounces out this perfect piece of pretentious dance-punk mockery. At least we hope that he's kidding. The sound is a flawless dance floor pumped-fist-in-the-air synth-driven funk, but it's the lyrics that we agree to sit in the booth with. It looks like fun, but it seems to have had something that it needs to tell. The song seems to think that the music it's dressed in is hardly the point; the song wants to sing. Its voice is lingering and familiar as The Rainbo's ever-present thin lyrics of stale cigarette smoke: “All these kids don't remember … I came here when … I know them … Did you ever go to [insert long dead West Side bar] when it was still open … I remember them when they still had a keyboardist … the first time …” It is like we walked in on the time of this song's life flashing before its eyes. Like a dying man, the lyrics and 24 bars of name-dropping want us to know that it was here, that it was there when what it cared about happened, that it happened, finally. But once it happened, then what? What songs like this always try to do, find some one to relive all the good times that never happened by telling them to someone new. This song is the Virgil of the cantina, but all it does is manage to keep anything new from happening by convincing itself and anyone foolish enough to listen that the past is the only thing that ever happened. We want songs about what's happening.