Interpol, Interpol
Reviewed by: Christian Hagen
I’m not a critic who believes in the notion that a band or artist should quit after a few failed albums, or that someone should stop making music just because they are unable to reach some former glory they once held. Okay, maybe when I wrote for Pajiba, I wrote an article stating that several bands should quit for making horrible records. But that was then. I regret those statements, and now hold no stake in the sentiment behind them.
But for those who believe in the notion that one or two good albums followed by a series of failures basically means that band should give up the ghost entirely, Interpol is a fairly common, and at least partially compelling, example.
2001’s Turn on the Bright Lights was a stellar classic of the kind of dark indie rock that made the Goths of the 80s cake their faces in garish makeup, with a striking blend of moving and flashy beats, driving riffs, and the occasional crooning melody. It was a play in contrasts. Songs like the blistering “PDA” rest comfortably next to the serene, reverent “NYC” and feel wholly real, totally tangible.
But something seemed lost in the band’s following two efforts. 2004’s Antics was brighter, relying less on subtle contrasts and more on the pumping drums and guitar riffs that churned in the more energetic tracks of their first album. But for its energy, Antics lacked the humanity of Bright Lights in many ways, feeling at times forced.
2007’s Our Love to Admire was mostly disastrous by comparison. Dull, plodding, lyrically and musically melodramatic. Here it was not a matter of bright or dark; the curtains were drawn in the bedroom, and for all singer Paul Banks’ moping, nothing was worth seeing in the darkened space of the music. It felt lifeless, and ultimately left many fans and critics cold.
Another 3-year gap, another new release. Expectations have either been to brace for another failure or to anticipate a return to form, a glorious second coming. The truth is nowhere near so dramatic: Interpol’s self-titled album is not of the quality of Bright Lights, certainly, but it’s a step in the right direction.
When the band clicks, it’s almost as profound as their early days. The guitar opening of “Memory Serves” is blazing, while the backbeat and Banks’ restrained croon provide a stark opposition. But the finest moment is immediately after the grandness of the first chorus, lush and multi-layered, drops away, and Banks is left to sing “It’s over/It’s over.” The release is refreshing, especially for a group so rooted in pain and misery. It’s a great relief from the tense, fearful sound of much of the rest of the album.
Later, the softer, sweeter “Try It On” moves deftly from its stilted piano refrain and a soft whistle to the danceable beats the band is known for. In many ways, Interpol here has much in common with indie darlings The National; each rely on exciting and complex musical arrangements to carry a vocalist more inclined to softer, more detached vocal melodies. To Banks’ credit, however, he can at least use his voice more variably than his National counterpart.
Still, the album carries a pall of the morose over its head. The band still hasn’t gotten back to a place that feels real, that feels human. For all the bouncing drums and swirling guitar patterns, there is very little to be found of the even fleeting playfulness or excitement of Bright Lights. Lead single “Lights” and its following track “Barricade” are, respectively, middling and abrasive. Each begins interestingly, each with a sense of direction and purpose, but they lead either nowhere or to a place that’s not at all pleasant to be, which, for an album and a band that relies heavily on the balance of positive and negative response, destroys the mood of the work.
Everything feels strangled of passion. It hardly seems possible that the same band that recorded “Stella Was a Diver,” with its tongue-in-cheek introduction and loose, rough production, could now be so humorless, so formal. It seems like never again will the band create something as wild as “Roland,” or even something of the quality of the better tracks off Antics like “Evil” or “Public Pervert.” Why so serious?
On the whole, however, it’s not likely a listener will find himself or herself as thoroughly disappointed, or as thoroughly bored, with Interpol as with Our Love to Admire, and, backhanded compliment though it is, that’s something to praise, at least. To be as great as your youthful glory is often difficult. No doubt the loss of bassist Carlos D, whose bass lines often shone beautifully through all of the group’s discography, will be yet another hurdle they will have to clear before they can begin to capture the magic of what they once produced. But, despite all their troubles, and though this new album is not the comeback they were probably hoping for, they at least keep trying, keep moving on and evolving. Who knows what the future holds for them? How can we, unless they try?
Rating: 43%