Luna Photo: Stefano Giovannini

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Early into Luna's final concert, Dean Wareham, the band's singer/songwriter, took a minute to respond to a sign held up by a fan in the audience, one that said "Thank you for thirteen years of happiness."

"You've been happy for 13 years? Well, I guess I've got 13 years of happiness, but I'm 41 years old!"

That banter was the only of its kind. The band's farewell performance, held appropriately in their hometown of New York, saw the band true to form. They calmly and deliberately plowed their way through a tight set, and nothing more.

Wareham, whose deadpan, laconic vocals are the band's most distinctive aspect, held his guitar close to his body and sang his lines in a straightforward, no-nonsense way; bassist Britta Phillips stood stone still, with nothing more on her mind, apparently, than her simple and steady bass runs; drummer Lee Wall sat straight and tall, doling out his light pulsing beats in a businesslike manner; it was only wild-haired rhythm guitarist Sean Eden that possessed a bit of spark, playing his rapid fire rhythmic bursts with the abandon of a man who knew it would be the last time.

Wareham, for his part, quipped after "California (All The Way)": "That's about the 407th or 408th time we've played that song... I don't know. But I do know it was the last."

We were shocked by the uncaring comment. To the packed house of indie-rock fans, who had traveled from far and wide to see Luna perform one last time, it seemed almost hostile.

Despite their formality, or perhaps because of it, the band was tight. The common line on Luna is that they sound like the Velvet Underground, and I think that's accurate. Curiously, however, it's hard to pinpoint exactly what era of the Velvet Underground they evoke most strongly. They do not sound like the adventurous and experimental White Light/White Heat; they do not recreate the creepiness and terror of the "yellow banana" debut album; they do not reach the heights of transcendence and spirituality to be found on The Velvet Underground; nor do they even sound like the tamer VU to be found on Loaded, which even on tracks like "Rock and Roll" and "Lonesome Cowboy Bill" is raucous and bold.

Luna's songs stroll along, buoyed by clean, sprightly guitars, simple bass/drum backing, and ironic, weary lyrics delivered in Wareham's nerdy, tired drawl. They rarely explode in bursts of triumph or despair, nor do they ever take it down to a quiet whisper or hush; rather, most of the songs ramble on in the same steady, 4/4, pulsing-yet-easy rhythm like every other song. Passionate and experimental they are not.

So I suppose it's fitting that they treated their final show like any other. It would be out of character for them to make a big production of their finale. The emotional tenor of their music is not to make a big production out of anything. Their sound is lo-fi, as is the content of their lyrics; they are observers of life, who make small, intelligent, witty comments. They are not melodramatic or bold; they are easy and steady.

The Last Waltz this was not. Luna was primarily a band of the 1990s, and their exit was fittingly 1990s-esque: last decade, the coolest thing in the world was to seem like you didn't care about anything. We'll never know how much they were affected by the good-bye, since they will never give up that pose of disaffected cool. And that's OK, because it's Luna.

The desperate fans cried out "Don't break up!" but the band did not heed their calls. They came; they played; they left.