Death Cab for Cutie, for those of you who don’t know, is a band founded by Ben Gibbard in the late nineties. They’ve released seven studio albums, three of which were recorded with Atlantis.

Spontaneously purchasing Death Cab for Cutie’s album Plans is the most important musical decision I have ever made. Where the Eagles, ACDC, Super Tramp and Guns n’ Roses were the bands that defined the youths of my parents, Death Cab has forever shaped the way that I listen to music. It was, I like to say, the gateway drug that showed me the spectacular world of indie music; once I knew what was out there I had to have more, so much more.

I had originally planned to review Death Cab’s most recent album Codes and Keys, which came out this past May. To truly understand why this recent album was so despairingly disappointing, however, I needed to trace the band’s history. I felt the mandate within myself, urging me to look backwards at the music that came before. By completing the arch of Death Cab’s music, perhaps more people will return to the golden moments before purchasing the newest installation.

I want to show the stunning moments, the pinnacle of awesomeness, the beginning of the end and the final collapse into mediocrity. This is Death Cab as I understand it: the perfection and the tragedy.

Everyone writes about love. Relationships are as beautiful as they are difficult. Sometimes when a relationship is about to draw to its final, painful conclusion there is a moment of realization. The fizz has dissipated and the beverage is flat; you don’t love them anymore and there is nothing you can do about it.

There were two songs Gibbard wrote that the rest of the band did not want to produce. One of these was “Tiny Vessels,” which traced exactly this: the ending of a relationship. Most everyone has lied about loving someone. Few people have articulated it like Death Cab — horrible, tragic, desperately sad, but completely relatable at the same time.

Today, songs on the radio move so quickly. Everything feels rushed, auto-tuned, peppy and repetitive (sorry pop fans). Music shouldn’t be afraid to move at its own pace. A song shouldn’t fear to take its time.

“Transatlanticism” is an eight-minute song where every second counts. Last year, I entered unknown waters when my boyfriend crossed the ocean and our relationship became long distance. I remember driving down one of Manitoba’s endless highways and “Transatlantisism” began to play. The chorus is only one line, and Gibbard repeats it over and over again: “I need you so much closer.” There are few songs as beautiful as this one.

So, when did Death Cab get bad? Their first album, Something About Airplanes, and their second album, We Have the Facts and We’re Voting Yes, were coarser. The music was brand new and more alternative. The Photo Album held on to the best of what Death Cab generated in the band’s early albums, but polishes the sound. When Transatlanticism was released — their best album as far as I am concerned — it was close to perfect.

And then the band signed to a major label. This, I think, was the beginning of the end.

I promise, I am not a pretentious hipster infuriated when the indie music I have loved for years attains success and fame. In this case, though, fame changed the sound. It is just true.

Plans is a mediocre album, with one stunning exception: “I Will Follow You Into the Dark” is their best song, but it also marks the moment that Death Cab began to lose their sparkle. It stands alone against a listenable but otherwise unspectacular album.

Narrow Stairs followed and was nominated for a Grammy it didn’t deserve. One or two songs held on to bits and pieces of the music I had loved so much — namely “The Ice is Getting Thinner” and “Grapevine Fires” — but I could feel my persistent, wholehearted love for the band slipping through my fingers.

Now here we are. It’s 2011 and Codes and Keys was recently released. There isn’t a lot left for me to say. You can probably feel this conversation moving toward a disappointed conclusion. The arc of awesome has risen and it plummeted to its lowest point with Codes and Keys. The acoustic guitar that used to bring me to tears has been abandoned almost entirely. The music barely shimmers.

If we wait long enough, all bands either pack it in at the pinnacle of their success, leaving fans desperate for more, or they peter out until what made them spectacular has all but vanished. Codes and Keys is a ghost of Death Cab and little more. If you want to experience the best of what this band has to offer, and some of the best music I have ever had the pleasure of listening to, return to when it was golden, before everything faded to grey.