November 13, 2004
ROCK REVIEW | INTERPOL
The New York Times
Dissonant and Kind of Cool, 'She Is a Porno,' Too
By KELEFA SANNEH
It's easy to make fun of Interpol.
Those self-consciously cryptic lyrics! (The Web site
www.stylusmag.com recently posted a list of the "Top 10 Worst Lines on Interpol's First Album." No. 4 was the infamous refrain from the song "NYC," which goes, "The subway/She is a porno.")
Those leaden, purposely awkward songs! (Paul Banks, the singer, loves to find a two- or three-note phrase and stick to it obstinately, as if to remind listeners that he's a misfit even in his own band.)
That bass player! (Last year Spin magazine named Interpol's bassist, Carlos D., the ninth "coolest person in rock," despite - or maybe because of - his passing resemblance to the gangly military buff Gareth Keenan from "The Office"; they even wear matching gun holsters.)
But success has somehow made it easier to see why people love Interpol, which came to Hammerstein Ballroom on Thursday night for the first of two sold-out shows. And while the artful dissonance remained, the band also sounded bigger and tougher than ever, despite - or, again, maybe because of - the bass player, who sometimes goose-stepped across the stage.
Interpol's new album, "Antics" (Matador), is an improvement over its rather joyless neo-new-wave debut, "Turn on the Bright Lights." The CD begins with an overture, "Next Exit," which also began Thursday's concert; like many of the best songs on "Antics," it has a warm, familiar chord progression that gives it a glow to offset Mr. Banks's gloom. As the song gathered heft, Mr. Banks intoned, "You've been building up steam, ignited by this fight/So do this thing with me, instead of tying on a tight one tonight," a sturdy couplet that even a snarky Web site would probably find unobjectionable.
There were still dull stretches, but the best moments hinted at the group's secret strength: machismo. Interpol specializes in lovelorn songs that conjure up manly tenacity. During "Public Pervert," Mr. Banks followed his band's glimmering groove without quite giving in to it. He sang plaintive lyrics ("How many days will it take to land?/How many ways to reach your hand?") with an obvious shudder and a less obvious hint of swagger; he sounded not just gloomy, but defiantly gloomy.
The opening act was the Secret Machines, whose music is sparser and drier than Interpol's. A trio, the group builds elegant songs out of minimalist instrumental lines that sometimes seem to stretch out forever toward the horizon. Unfortunately, a Bob Dylan cover (a moaned-and-sighed "Girl of the North Country") seemed endless, too, but the band's minor hit, "Nowhere Again," sounded fantastic: an intoxicating dose of chilly exuberance, never quite bubbling over into pure joy.
