1) Pioneer To The Falls; 2) No I In Threesome; 3) The Scale; 4) The Heinrich
Maneuver; 5) Mammoth; 6) Pace Is The Trick; 7) All Fired Up; 8) Rest My
Chemistry; 9) Who Do You Think; 10) Wrecking Ball; 11) The Lighthouse.
General verdict: Catchier songs, better vocals, slightly more
diversity than before — but not enough to sneak through a second window of
opportunity.
If someday the dust settles, the cards are
reshuffled, and the memory of Interpol as «one of those bands that spearheaded
the short-lived garage / post-punk / indie revival in the 2000s with their
groundpoking debut album» is erased from the public conscience — in that case,
I would not be too surprised if Our Love
To Admire, rather than its two predecessors, became the most highly
appreciated Interpol album. Admittedly, this does not mean much, but if there
ever really was an aesthetic agenda
that could be called Interpolʼs own, my own sixth sense tells me that it was
here where they really came closest of all to proving this.
Upon first listen, Our Love Was To Admire may feel like an obvious slump — a pretty
grim feeling for those who werenʼt too overwhelmed with the earlier records in
the first place. The engine is winding down, the songs are getting slower and
more soulful, with more emphasis on Paul Banksʼ vocals than ever before and
romantic sentimentalism frequently overshadowing the tightness of the rhythm
section. Itʼs not quite the safe zone of «adult contemporary» yet, but one
might easily get the feeling that this is the direction in which the band is
moving, and that the measly five years separating Our Love from Bright Lights
should not be enough time for the
band to earn the right to cuddle up by the fireplace.
Surprisingly, though, with repeated listens
this record began growing on me — not a lot, but, well, letʼs say there was
clearly some positive dynamics involved, as opposed to Bright Lights where each new listen just made it a more and more
annoying experience. What is the difference? After some consideration, I think
I count two. One, the album actually shows a bit of musical growth: the songs
can no longer be reduced to the same «hold down those two chords for eternity»
pattern. There are still quite a few exercises in minimalism, but some songs
rather prefer to follow the jangly folk patterns of the Byrds-to-Smiths legacy,
others adopt a grittier, harder rocking sound closer to the Black Keys, and the
final number, ʽLighthouseʼ, brings them closer to psychedelic, dreamy shoegaze
than anything they ever did before. One may or may not favor the results, but
at least they are trying to expand the formula, that much is obvious.
Second and even more surprising, the vocal
melodies are getting better — to the point where some of the songs begin
featuring clear vocal hooks, even if Paul Banks is still Paul Banks and his
singing voice is still nothing to write home about. This is most likely the
main reason why I manage to remember (at least temporarily) and feel content
about the first two songs. ʽPioneer To The Fallsʼ is arguably the best
straightahead love song they ever did, largely because of Banksʼ vocal
inflections on bits like "the soul can wait..." and "you fly
straight into my heart" — and they must have felt it, too, because
sometimes Banks slips into pure a cappella mode, and it is good, though still no Ian Curtis (at least a
semi-octave lower would be nice, thank you). In any case, it is the first time
where I actually feel like I care
about their stonefaced melancholia, and am ready to consider, if not accept,
their attempts to slip into the spirit of a two-hundred year old literary
romantic. Weird, but true.
What is even more true, I suppose, is that my
favorite song on the album, ʽNo I In Threesomeʼ, is most likely my favorite
because it comes closest of all to imitating the sound of classic Arcade Fire. That
introduction — repetitive bass, then guitars, then pianos, then lots of extra
noises in the background — is the kind of tension-raising strategy that made
Arcade Fire so outstanding, and this is a pretty decent attempt to do the same
thing without ten thousand people in
the studio. The hilarious thing about it is that if you do not keep a close
watch on the lyrics (including ignoring the song title, duh), the punchline —
"alone we may fight, so just let us be free" — will make the song
look like some anthemic battle cry; but if you do keep a close watch, particularly at the moment when "let us
be free" becomes "let us be three", you realize that the song is
really about trying to save a failing romance by introducing, um, an extra
element into the relationship, which gives the whole experience a
sarcastic-ironic angle that adds depth to the anthemic atmosphere. Anyway, the
most important thing is that, to me, the song has its own face, which is
something I could never admit about any given tune on Bright Lights.
It was also released as a promotional single,
but, unfortunately, the two main singles from the album showed the somewhat
more familiar, less sentimental and rockier face of Interpol, though, again, if
you listen very closely, the vocal melodies of both ʽThe Heinrich Maneuverʼ and
ʽMammothʼ are more poppy than ever before — and that ghostly falsetto
introduction of "spare me the suspense..." in ʽMammothʼ, along with
the blues-rock guitar riff that signs off each verse with a flourish, hints
that now they may be looking to Sixtiesʼ rather than Seventiesʼ garage rock for
inspiration. They are both decent songs, but they do not have that special
soulful substance of the two openers. Iʼd rather place my trust in the slow,
tired trudge of ʽRest My Chemistryʼ, whose chorus is emotionally captivating
and linguistically intriguing.
Do not get me wrong: all the kind words above
in no means imply that, all of a sudden, Interpol have matured into a truly
interesting band. The only point is that they traveled a certain road from
their first album to their third one, and I differ here from the critical
consensus stating that the road was downhill all the way; much as Iʼd like to
agree — because so much of recent pop music can be described as «one good album
and fifteen inferior clones» — in this case I just think it was largely a
matter of Zeitgeist: somehow, for
some reason, the musically and spiritually dull Bright Lights did capture it, but by the time they grew themselves
some musical muscle and some relatable emotionality, the window was closed.
This record was simply too much of a departure from their «golden standard»,
yet not enough of an artistic success to attract new legions of fans (for
instance, from emo circles — or even from the National Geographic audience,
despite the seductive album cover).
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