EASE DOWN THE ROAD

It was midnight on a Monday, and I was conflicted: do I sell myself out and go buy Interpol’s major label sell-out record at a store I know I shouldn’t be shopping at? I decided not to – I’d wait and buy it at the proper store in the morning. Then, improbably, I woke up at 2 a.m., fumbled my way to my car and bought Our Love To Admire, Interpol’s third album, at a bad, bad store. It seemed appropriate at the time, given that Interpol had just left indie mainstay Matador Records in favor of Capitol Records. By the way, my formative years were built on Matador’s releases.

While walking through said store’s isles I saw loads of males, all in the 18-22 age range; I told myself they were all there to buy the Interpol’s promising new record, but the truth was, they probably weren’t aware of Interpol or their new record, and were at said store to buy frozen pizzas or, fingers crossed, find a bedside buddy. Anyhow, most folks who were interested in Our Love To Admire had probably downloaded it months ago, this is, after all, modern society where music is worth little more than the amount of time it takes to click “download.”

Way back when I was these boys’ age, I was listening to Interpol’s first record, Turn On the Bright Lights, alone in my room, rather than looking for love at the supermarket. I wanted it that way. It was a seminal record for an era where I just wanted to hear good music and be left alone. I didn’t care much about my future and was only really concerned with three things: having a creative outlet; music; and making sure my family and friends a least sort of liked me. Everything else was a crapshoot’s cousin, but Interpol were alright by my taste-maker standards, and critics seemed to agree.

Eventually I started shaving my face and taking jobs I didn’t want, and for what? Health insurance? Money to buy Interpol’s second, only-decent-in-retrospect album, Antics? With responsibility came a healthy dose of humility, and I suspect that’s what will come for Interpol with their jump to Coldplay’s home, Capitol Records. No longer are they the indie kings of New York City, and you can see it written all over the presentation of the very produced Our Love (i.e. the major league catalog number purposefully accented inside the booklet). But that doesn’t mean it’s a bad record. Anyhow, Capitol Records is probably making less money than the indie labels are these days, Coldplayers and all. Overhead’s a real mother.

The resonating guitars, gothic atmospherics, spiky drums and cryptic, dark lyrics are all there, though this time out Interpol sound impossibly even more epic. Too epic. Even more epic than their primary influence, Joy Division. So epic that the NYC edge and “black ’cause I wanna be” charm is gone, replaced by what appears to be a swaggering, half-inspired caricature of their former selves. On Bright Lights Interpol sounded like the biggest band in the world at the time, and they did it with pocket production and only half the know-how they should have by now. It was a debut that could never be followed, but the Joy Division- and Tragically Hip-inspired band pressed on, and for that, Our Love is another hallmark-filled effort worthy of purchase for anyone still listening to Bright Lights and/or Antics. And believe it or not, it could also work as some nice filler listening for people who miss late-90s R.E.M. (You guys are out there, right?)

Despite selling out to Capitol Records and not yet finding a second bag of tricks, Interpol still don’t deserve to have their albums purchased along with a generic pack of diet soda, sleeping pills and a box of no-sugar fudgesicles. They still fit the high art profile they’re known for and, despite all this talk of selling out, they still know how to rock epically. Their guitars still sound bigger than life and Paul Banks’ vocals remain the best Stipe/Curtis/Downie hybrid out there.

Hardcore fans: head out to you favorite indie shop and pick up this decent-enough junior-year album next time you need a fix. Thwarted Bright Lights fans: be sure to head out to your favorite indie store and pick up The National’s latest album, Boxer; it’ll no doubt remind you why you once thought Paul Banks was eight feet tall. Coldplay enthusiasts: trade in your dusty copy of X&Y and pick up Bright Lights immediately.