James Murphy knows where to see all of his friends tonight. When the former LCD Soundsystem bandleader announced he was opening The Four Horsemen, a Williamsburg wine bar, it seemed like an IRL manifestation of self-parody that Gentrified Brooklyn™ has used to skewer itself fictionally for years; the jokes to make here are just too easy.
It’s understandable that one might be skeptical of what seems like Murphy’s more dilettantish impulses. I was, until I had dinner there. Chef Nick Curtola’s food and the accompanying wine (curated, in part, by Murphy) are quite good. My visit gave me a particularly tasty take on Spanish tapas classic patatas bravas, which my server paired with a dry cava. They’ve lingered on my mind’s palate, weeks later.
Perhaps more memorably, Murphy was in the house when I arrived on a Tuesday evening last month, holding court with his wife Christina Topsoe (also a partner in the wine bar) and celebrity friends (no names, folks, this ain’t TMZ). It would indicate Murphy is settling into the role of New York high-profile bar/club/restaurant owner. It’s what they’re supposed to do: host VIP friends at their place, "inconspicuous" yet anything but, as a kind of passive promotion. (It’s New York, so patrons pretend not to notice.) Front of house ended up seating me so close to his table, I couldn't not hear him prognosticating openly about the music industry: the pitfalls of Apple Music for artists and a speculated-upon proprietary Beats plug/jack to replace Apple devices' current 1/8" universal standard.
I tuned him out the rest of the night. It seemed only polite to him and my dinner companion. I didn't even notice the bar’s music until Murphy went behind the bar to turn it up about an hour later to play selector. Shazam failed me, so I pointed upward and asked, "What is this?" Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band’s "Zig Zag Wanderer". It felt like a moment out of High Fidelity. Maybe because we’re short so many record stores these days, bars/restaurants is where more of these moments happen now. That cultural shift seems like an incidental-yet-powerful part of The Four Horsemen’s appeal.
The creation and curation of music—beautiful and supposedly revered—are rarely sustainable as cash flows by themselves anymore. The pursuits have to be paired with tech companies like the Google-owned Songza or the newly debuted Apple Music to make a career. Indeed, Dr. Dre and Trent Reznor have done very well. But for legacy artists building a cottage industry like Murphy, it isn't enough to make a living. So he opened a wine bar in a tony neighborhood. Not that it’s a cushy gig. Murphy joked to the New York Times, "I need something with really low margins, high risk, brutal hours and which I have no experience at."
His self-deprecation aside, Murphy has foodie cred (befriending and learning from chefs, baristas, and sommeliers around the world, eating so much rich food he got gout, he told the Times) and a mature vision of what he wants The Four Horsemen to look and taste like. He might be new at this, but he’s a natural. With his cultural caché, it’s a smart business play. It's not like it’s entirely without precedent in his career or in the industry as of late.
In a collaboration with Blue Bottle, Murphy’s hawked his own brand of coffee. A few of his friends in Arcade Fire are planning a modern Haitian restaurant and cultural space in Montreal. Fellow DJ/producer legacy act Moby opened Teany years ago. There’s no shortage of musicians, from country stars to rappers, partnering in branded bar and/or restaurant ventures. Murphy’s musical pursuits are no stranger to brand integration (IBM, Converse, McIntosh Labratory) and aspiration (New York City’s subways, the sounds of which he’s wanted to change for over 15 years and may be able to do in some form soon).
Murphy—with his slate of interests and a devoted audience he left wanting more when LCD ended in 2011—is bound to diversify his bonds, like GZA told us to. Hip-hop has upped the ante for musicians’ entrepreneurship since the '80s (Run-D.M.C., with their Adidas line) and '90s (Sean Combs, with his everything). Not that it’s without precedent in the music world: queen of legacy pop stars Cher had Sanctuary, a branded catalog in 1996. No rock brand has pimped itself out more than KISS (Aerosmith is a close second). You've heard of ridiculous and expensive band merchandise but that's so 20th century. This is the era of bands as BRANDS.
In his own boutique way, Murphy is forging his own GOOP: he’s called it House of Good, detailed in a 2012 Times feature, full of luxury goods (with The Four Horsemen, he’s upped his vision to include services), purposefully understated and minimally promoted. The Four Horsemen's facade in Williamsburg is the most discreet on the block: a stenciled logo on a small pane of glass near the door.
Is it fair to poke fun at Murphy for cashing in on his cred? As an indie-label impresario, you never go Full Brand, right? Or do we just accept that this is the music industry and culture we live in now? "This is an industry that makes zero sense. It made zero sense ten years ago and somehow we’re [DFA Records] still chugging along, doing the weird thing that we do," Murphy said in a 2013 interview with Billboard. "As long as we just hang out and don’t do terrible things that seem gross I’m happy."
As music fans, we've become inured to corporate sponsorship—most of all at festivals, as captive audiences, and on the web. It’s hard not to see the benefits when you see what Red Bull makes possible, like DFA’s recent 12th anniversary party. On the other hand: the SXSW Doritos Jacked Stage. It’s fucking breathtaking. I saw it for the first time standing next to a member of Los Angeles band Mansions on the Moon, loading up his van to play no-doubt one of many sets they had that day.
"That is GROSS," I chuckled in disbelief to one member, staring at the Frito Lay abomination from a few blocks away.
"You know what, man," he told me, "this is what happens when people don't buy music."
We're all getting free music—streaming or pirated—enabled by this, to the point we don't really care about corporate sponsorships anymore. Let them take care of it. That’s the lay of the land. So is it really so bad/weird/wrong or such a big deal at all when a venerable artist like Murphy tries to—in essence—underwrite himself, selling luxury items and fancy food and wine? At least Murphy knows who all his friends are. And at his wine bar, he can see all of them tonight.