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Two years ago, just as The Strokes seemed universally acknowledged as the best thing to come out of NYC since the Bronx Bombers and sliced pizza, four clad-in-black post-punk mope-rockers calling themselves Interpol [much as with The Killers, we simply can’t fathom how such a choice band name had not been spoken for long before—ed.] started buzzing around Julian’s pouty face. An indie band also hailing from the Big Apple (calling Matador Records home), Interpol didn’t come equipped with the pretty hype machine of their major-label peers (who called a revitalized RCA Records home). But courtesy of their debut, the Joy Division-esque dark night of the soul Turn On The Bright Lights, they nevertheless managed the unlikely: With worldwide sales of more than 500,000 CDs under their (shiny, black) belts (dizzying numbers by indie standards) and near-constant MTV2/radio rotation, Interpol has clearly made an indelible impression upon our psyches. Fact is, two years on, ain’t nobody talking about The Strokes . . .
Such is the unpredictable world of alt-rock, where the favored horse isn’t always the winning horse. In the fall of 2004, while The Strokes have receded to relative obscurity, Interpol is at last releasing its sophomore disc, Antics, and it’s doing so to the breathless anticipation that accompanies extraordinarily few albums. Which only stands to reason, seeing as Bright Lights—an instantly timeless collection composed of equal parts drone and dread—fostered a rabid cult following. While such circumstances have been known to summon anxiety in the hearts of up-and-coming bands on the brink of their all-important Sophomore Album, it doesn’t seem to have concerned Interpol. Not in the slightest, actually.
If Antics is any reflection of the band’s mindset following a whirlwind two years of touring and recording, they couldn’t give a rat’s ass what Disc Dos does for their career. They seem uninterested in engaging in critical preoccupations, such as 1) a second album should be an extension of the first, further defining/refining everything that made it such a success, or 2) a second album should revisit the components of the first, reinterpreting them in bold, imaginative ways, not so much moving forward as digging deeper. Interpol seems to understand that such thinking is essentially a bullet in the foot of the creative process that might liberate a band, allowing it to actually reach its potential and enjoy a career. So, the group made Antics, which does neither 1 nor 2. Throwing off the yoke of Bright Lights’ cohesive atmospheric weight, the album is a loose batch of singles armed with an almost buoyant tunefulness—shot through with spiky backbeats and (dare we say it) post-punk ass-shake.
In the midst of a notably lighter production, Carlos D and Daniel Kessler (bass and guitar, respectively) have been brought down in the mix. Paul Banks’ vocals, meanwhile, have been punched up; before, it occupied the same sonic plane, coming off merely as another instrument. But Banks’ vocals themselves have also changed, emerging from the effective (albeit occasionally monotonous) drone that defined Bright Lights into a powerful melodic device that further underscores the band’s poppier, more expansive direction. From the Gang Of Four® four-on-the-four stomp of the first single, “Slow Hands,” to the disco-charged funk-stomp of “Length Of Love,” Antics gets its proverbial freak on as Bright Lights never dared. But remember, this is Interpol—the darkness couldn’t be far behind. Deep in the album’s gut, composing its middle section are “Take You On A Cruise,” “Not Even Jail,” and “Public Pervert.” And just like that, we’re right back in the shit, the music growing damp and heavy, stewing on the album’s evil-woman thematic core. The more things change, the more they remain the same . . .
Two years ago, shortly after Turn On The Bright Lights’ release, if you’d asked us if we’d be sitting here discussing the merits of Interpol, we would’ve said something along the lines of, Um . . . no. A band whose primary influence is Joy Division will likely remain so obscure or such a novelty, they won’t warrant much attention six months from now. The Strokes, on the other hand . . . But once in a blue moon the dark horse comes in big, and we find ourselves reviewing an Antics, which, if it isn’t quite the powerhouse we expected (and it’s not), it is one of the best listens so far this year and, more importantly, the work of a band that will likely confound expectations for years to come.
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