“I wish that we could talk about it. But there, that’s the problem.”

In every relationship, whether it be with a friend, romantic interest or otherwise, there comes a definitive point where things change. Intentions become clear and progress either continues, comes to a halt, or in some cases, reverses.

Out of all of the moments we retain over the years, these instances of progression seem to be the ones that stick and define our future selves. My first girlfriend dumping me on my elementary school swing set, realizing my childhood best friends were no longer as relevant, and a constant stream of loss during my college years all altered my attitude towards the future.

However, loss in this instance doesn’t necessarily relate to death. A loss of companionship, a loss of friends, a loss of hair, a loss of confidence, a loss of interest. Progress halted by pure inconveniences.

LCD Soundsystem’s “Sound of Silver” revealed itself to me during this time of loss, and it’s incredible how a certain group of songs can seemingly act as the soundtrack to a period of your life even when looking back at it.

It strikes me as a record about progress and the many forms that it takes. Whether we be stagnant or dynamic, we’re always advancing in a way.

“You can normalize. Don’t it make you feel alive?”

After James Murphy’s first outing under the LCD Soundsystem moniker, his style became clear: dance-rock with an occasional tongue-in-cheek feel for those looking for more than the typical electro-pop influenced dance music often found on the radio. It isn’t often that we find a disco-punk record with references to Captain Beefheart.

And while Murphy’s self-titled debut album garnered an underground following and served as a promising beginning from one of the most unique rock acts of the 2000s, it wasn’t until Murphy recruited an extended recording group of musicians and stopped improvising his song’s lyrics in the sound booth that the project reached its full potential.

What’s most fascinating about “Sound of Silver” is how inaccessible it might seem to some at first listen. Many of the record’s nine tracks initially seem a little too long, a little too vacant, and a little too sarcastic. It’s as if Murphy is winking to you before wailing into that somewhat ironically classy crooner-style microphone.

But “Sound of Silver” is a more mature record than its predecessor. It’s an album that requires legitimate attention to fully digest everything it has to offer. It seems so un-cool that it ends up being cool, but in truth, it’s so cool that it almost becomes un-cool to those that don’t understand.

It’s like a joke that not everybody is in on.

And when Murphy and Co. aren’t inducing confused chuckles with lines like, “Don’t blame the Canadians, let’s go North America,” they’re serving up some of the most well-written ballad-type tracks in recent memory.

And similar to our experiences with others, when human relationships change directions, so do our relationships with certain pieces of music.

This particular moment happened on a cold January evening.

“That’s how it starts; we go back to your house.”

As I walk into her bedroom for the first time, there’s a multitude of objects that vie for my attention. That Elton John record hanging above her window, those beat-up roller-blades resting in the corner, that DVD copy of “(500) Days of Summer” hanging off of the desk.

“I haven’t opened that yet, but you can borrow it if you want,” she says to me.

I’ve seen that film at least 10 times, but maybe I’d take it home anyway.

Sitting on her carpeted floor, we talk into the night. I attempt to impress her by striking some general chords on her keyboard. She succeeds at impressing me with her own, original songs performed with a guitar. I succeed at making an ass out of myself trying to make her laugh.

Later that night, she says we can’t be together.

As the clock turns January to February, I leave her apartment and stumble up the stairs to my own. Lying motionless on my own carpet, I reach for a record to fill the silence. “Sound of Silver” materializes in my hand. I place the record on the turntable and skip directly to “All My Friends.”

There’s a certain weight to the moment you first cry to a specific song that is incomparable. At that moment, that piece of music has a whole new meaning to your ears.

“All My Friends” is a perfect song.

Much like the rest of “Sound of Silver,” the album’s centerpiece stands as a feat of not only songwriting, but production as well. The instrumentation is accessible, but not dumbed down as to appeal to those looking for the lowest-common-denominator of music. The pacing is constantly engaging the listener, the song-structure/placement always refreshing and compelling. The lyrical themes always thought provoking, sometimes only after some careful analysis.

And while the more introspective tracks found here are definitely the standouts, – “Someone Great” and “All My Friends” back-to-back is almost unfairly poignant – the more up-beat tracks certainly don’t underwhelm in any way.

The unrelenting groove of “Us v Them” is almost exhausting, in the best of ways; “Get Innocuous!” serves as an effectively hypnotic introduction, and the minimalist title-track features some of the most effectively subdued songwriting of the decade, with the same five stanzas being repeated over it’s spacey seven-minute run-time.

“New York, you’re safer, and you’re wasting my time.”

The range of potential emotions extracted from the listener during the length of “Sound of Silver” is frankly remarkable. It could produce laughs, it could induce tears, or it could just make you dance your ass off. Perhaps all at the same time.

The gamut of sentiment LCD Soundsystem’s sophomore effort creates is one that is rarely found in the modern music scene, where projects often seem to be more concerned with nailing one specific tone and/or mood – which isn’t necessarily a bad thing.

It’s just that, comparatively, “Sound of Silver” is that much more of an impressive achievement. Each track radiates it’s own unique feel, creating an incredibly versatile, yet cohesive, piece of music. And as far as I’m concerned, we haven’t seen an album achieve these same heights ever since.

As the somber chords of “New York, I Love You But You’re Bringing Me Down” begin fading out, you might begin to think about the journey you’ve been on. Not only during the last hour, but over the last decade. The relationships you’ve garnered, the future that you’ve created for yourself.

Whether it be ideal or not, we all progress past our everyday issues toward something better. We’re all advancing, and if it seems as though your progress has halted, it’s just a matter of time before you begin to move forward again.

Life is overwhelming, but will anything that’s important to us today matter in another decade?

I’m not sure, ask me again in 10 years.