Pitchfork

Most great bands know when to break up. The Beatles, the Sex Pistols, the Velvet Underground, the Replacements, Television, the Stooges, and Eddie and the Cruisers all acknowledged their own death knells and instinctively grasped when to pack it in.

Of course, we all know what happens to the bands that linger on in the face of old age: these human relics become live nostalgia acts sharing double bills with Dylan's kids, or hobbling into the studio every two years leaking geezer-drool like Pop, Voodoo Lounge and Two Against Nature. Then again, there are always more demented geriatric tendencies: inexplicably befriending Burt Bacharach, hiring underfunded symphony orchestras, or even teaching adult education courses such as "How to Make It in the Rock Biz."

Sadly, Luna seems like just another once-great, now-aging band enduring a slow disintegration, and thus sorely in need of the proverbial "bitter break-up." After being dropped by Elektra subsequent to 1997's non-million selling Pup Tent, they've been floating in artistic limbo without even a permanent label to call home.

Original drummer Stanley Demeski is long gone, as is bassist Justin Harwood. Dean Wareham is trying his hand at acting. Sean Eden has a side project called the Weeds of Eden. And unfortunately, Luna live shows are simply not as thrilling as they once were. Besides, Dean just isn't all that funny anymore. Where's all the witty between-song chatter? Is it really enough to say, "Thanks!" and "Are you guys French?" Not to mention that the band's cover of the iconic 80's white-trash anthem, "Sweet Child O' Mine," only retains its knee-slapping Ivy League irony for one listen, if that.

In the mid-90's just after the release of the critically lauded Penthouse, Luna were at their peak, both as a live unit and studio band. After having spent years on the road opening for everyone from the briefly reunited Velvet Underground to the Cocteau Twins, Wareham and Eden's inspired guitar synergy began to achieve a surprising intensity in concert. In fact, the band often achieved a rare quality musicologists often refer to as "rocking."

Lately, Luna's been touring incessantly without writing much new material. I guess they figured, hey, why not play live in support of a live album? Logical. So, Luna released this no-big-deal live affair on the Brooklyn-based Arena Rock Records, as a partial justification of their continued existence as semi-functional band. Sadly, the album is a few years too late in coming. As an example, the guys, while opening for Lou Reed sometime back in 1996, pulled off an amazing rendition of the Velvets' "Ride into the Sun" with Reed and Wareham handling the vocals together. Where were all the tape recorders back then?

On Live, Dean sings with a tired and less charming sort of "let's get this over with" detachment. Sean Eden's guitar lacks the creative spark it once had, as he now plays second-fiddle to Wareham as a soloist-- although Eden does manage to gets away with rambling Tom Verlaine mimicry during the endless guitar break in "23 Minutes in Brussels."

Oddly though, Wareham seems to be in top form as a lead guitarist. He turns in some great scratch-acid wah-wah playing and other effects-enhanced psychedelic fuzz-outs. The understated lines on "Tiger Lily," and the loose, extended workouts on "Friendly Advice" channel the ghost of Sterling Morrison. He even gives a little history lesson to Luna fans with a rare Galaxie 500 live cut, "4th of July." But-- speaking of friendly advice-- you might want to do yourself a favor and ignore the newer songs included here: "Hello Little One," and "4000 Days." They only serve to suggest that Wareham will probably never write another "Slash Your Tires."

New bassist Britta Phillips doesn't play with the authority that Justin Harwood did, but she's easier to look at. And hearing her speak French during the band's sexy cover of Serge Gainsbourg's "Bonnie and Clyde" just may be the only known aural cure for erectile dysfunction.

Still, don't expect some stratospheric Live at Leeds-evoking performance. Then again, Live isn't as dismal a live affair as many of the historic failed live albums of the last thirty years: the Stones' criminal Flashpoint, the notorious 1971 Chicago IV recorded at Carnegie Hall, and 1976's Wings over America.

So, if you're already in the habit of buying Luna albums, may as well add this to your collection. If you reside in Greenland or Antarctica, and don't get to see the band play much, Live is adequately representative of what the band sounds like onstage in front of an animate audience. I guess it's at least worth pinching from your local multimedia megamart.