Interpol - The Long Wave of New York

Paul Banks, Daniel Kessler, Carlos D., Sam Fogarino. In a word, Interpol. They are the most brilliant architects of the new wave revival that eventually spread – with mixed fortunes – through the first decade of the 2000s. Emerging at the end of the 90s, in that same forward-looking New York always able to sense new styles and trends, they presented themselves to the wider public as the worthy heirs of that British musical tradition of the dark-wave kind, embodied by bands like Joy Division, Cure, but also the pop-ballad forge of the Smiths, as their strongest points of reference. The New York band would pave the way for an entire movement, one that would prove decidedly derivative, but no less worthwhile for it, at least in its best moments. But let's take things in order...

The dark side of the Big Apple

It all began during their college years, amid genuine, revolutionary ideals: the drive for change, love of music and friendship were the decisive sparks. Daniel Kessler and Greg Drudy, in the second half of the 90s,  were university classmates in New York; they started hanging out and nurturing the idea of forming a band, which Carlos Dengler would soon join.
The main problem was finding a singer: eventually, the blond Paul Banks joined the group. But this first embryonic version of the band wasn't yet called Interpol. “Las Armas”, “The French Letters”, “Cuddleworthy”: these were among the possible names considered. Then Paul, recalling how his schoolmates used to tease him about his name sounding like the word “Interpol”, proposed what would become the definitive monicker.

Pitch-black, mournful sounds, anything but rational, romantic, floating. This was the first formula signed Interpol. From the very first two EPs released, the quartet's decadent streak was already evident. Problems, however, were not lacking. Greg Drudy left the band in 2000, and a powerful drummer was brought in to replace him: Samuel Fogarino. The definitive line-up thus featured Paul Banks (guitar and vocals), Daniel Kessler (guitars), Carlos Dengler (bass and keyboards), Sam Fogarino (drums). With this line-up, the New York wavers started playing around America, mixing covers with a handful of unreleased tracks with distinctly eighties cadences, until Matador decided to sign them to their roster.
Thus began a frenzy of rehearsals and recording sessions for what would become their first album.

Dark-wave with the lights on

After two years spent in the studio, Interpol finally release Turn On The Bright Lights. And it's a smash.
Eleven tracks. Fifty minutes. The essence of the new wave movement is all condensed right here. Interlocking guitars, ripples, furious beats, melancholic moods, a detached voice and blurred, chiaroscuro imagery. Here they are, Interpol.
The most immediate reference point remains Joy Division, mostly because of Banks's dark baritone. But while the Manchester band's music was spare and spectral, Interpol's sound is more layered and full, credit above all to Kessler's guitar, masterful in its ability to craft riffs that always set just the right tone for a song, shifting it repeatedly, with results that are sometimes epic, sometimes hypnotic, built from layers of simple chords and effects, in the vein of Cure's “17 Seconds”, but also of Sonic Youth, the shoegazers and the ragas of Velvet Underground. The pulsing, powerful rhythm section rounds out the work admirably.
The opening “Untitled” is already a rock anthology piece in its own right: the guitars stretch out, the rhythm section locks in, and the chill of the synth is a reminder that New Order aren't dead yet. Banks's voice, apathetic and deep, flows through Kessler's twists and turns, a true genius of the strings. The masterful aggression of “Obstacle 1”, accompanied by a gorgeous video directed by Floria Sigismondi, brings to mind Strokes, but in a tenser, more neurotic version.
And while the nocturnal romanticism of the fabulous “NYC” ideally carries the listener through the endless avenues of Central Park, gazing up at the moon and the stars, the ups and downs of “PDA” form the perfect fusion of a cold, almost atonal voice and a layer of magmatic, abrasive guitars, driven by the fast, steady pulse of the rhythm section. These are tracks whose full scope would become even clearer in the years to come. A song like “Say Hello To The Angels”, for instance, should make Franz Ferdinand grateful to the four New Yorkers for life. The following “Hands Away” arrives right in the middle of the record and represents its fulcrum: an illuminated mantra carried by a lysergic flow of guitars that dissolve into a couple of chords, with the whispered vocal blurring into an almost mystical trance.
After the romantic, hazy emphasis, Interpol throws itself back into driving riffs and tight rhythms. “Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down” is an almost six-and-a-half-minute tour de force, in which Banks traces perfect ups and downs. And while “Roland” soars high, amid noise reverb and hard-edged passages, bursts of guitar and a decidedly noisy coda sketch out the essence of “New”. The intimate, nostalgic side of an autumnal, deserted New York resurfaces in the masterful closing track “Leif Erikson”: Banks's oddly warm tone, strikingly reminiscent of Jim Morrison's declaimed singing, guitars providing gentle accompaniment, drums barely audible. It's the fitting conclusion to an album that it wouldn't be a stretch to call a masterpiece: it's certainly the most important piece of that wave-sound rediscovery that would soon take off on both sides of the Atlantic, but also one of the most significant records of the post-2000 era.

Interpol prove capable of synthesizing musical references that may well be obvious, yet doing so with enough personality and skill in sound manipulation and songwriting to convey deep feelings and emotions, whether through neurotic or melancholic melodies, or through their ethereal, powerful or hypnotic sound. And time is on their side. In an era of emerging wave revival, there's a need for a band with greater commercial potential, capable of bringing this kind of movement animating the start of the decade to a wider audience. Interpol have all the right qualities, even though they're on an independent label and still confined to a narrow underground circuit. But success is just around the corner.
After a triumphant tour, packed with dozens of dates around the world, the quartet returns to the studio to prepare the follow-up. The wait, however, would bear unripe fruit.

Aftershocks

Two years after the big bang of their debut, Interpol try again with Antics (2004). And the first impression is that something has been lost along the way, even though the new album is better produced than its predecessor, and can be listened to with the lights on, so to speak, thanks to less cryptic lyrics, gladly warmed by more reassuring sonic blends that could genuinely win over a wider audience too.
The lead single, “Slow Hands”, catchy and engaging as it is, doesn't offer any particular thrills, with its rough riffs accompanied by more distinctly rock-oriented surges. The overture is entrusted to the liturgical, measured “No Exit”: polished sound and Banks's vocals now sounding warmer and more enveloping. But it's the bass of “Evil” that officially opens the dance, with the guitars climbing feistily over the solid structures laid down by Fogarino's drumsticks. The raw, unfiltered wave sound, combined with vague and unsurprising echoes of Echo & The Bunnymen, resurfaces in “Take You On A Cruise”. It's then a track like “Not Even Jail”, with its pop stride, that delivers fresh emotions, proving to be a track of real value in the band's discography: Kessler always carefully measures out chords and surges, Fogarino warms the cymbals with tenderness and Banks whispers delicately, as the bass sways harmonically.
The interlude of the sixth track, like that of the seventh (with its domineering rhythm section), soon gives way to disappointment: both “A Time To Be So Small” and “C’mere”, in fact, come across as mere filler, there just to tick the box. A different story, though, applies to the epic “Length Of Love”: once again the guitars burst forcefully onto the scene, handing out rough notes by the fistful.

Set cadences, geometric rhythms, rationality. This seems to be the essence of Antics. A formula that partly diminishes the brilliant eclecticism of Turn On The Bright Lights. The game too often feels flat, self-referential and one-note.
A record that is essentially a matter of form, then, far from the magical reverberations of the debut, yet one that nonetheless confirms the solidity and cohesion the band has achieved, offering more than one display of skill along the way. From the desperate darkness of Turn On The Bright Lights, Banks and co. lead us into the aching, melancholic半-light of Antics, dropping a few stitches, but still hinting at considerable potential.

Starting Over From Three

Three years on from Antics, Interpol return to the studio to record their third full-length, Our Love To Admire.
A fresh start or a flattening into already-consolidated standards? News of the band's move under the wing of a major label had many fearing the worst. And the precedent set by Sigur Rós with "Takk" was hardly encouraging in that respect. And yet, at the very least, the test of renewal is passed. The new record, in fact, differs substantially from its predecessor.
Still, no radical turn in the band's career. Rather, Our Love To Admire feels like a clear homage by Interpol to their unforgettable debut. The pop-rock-wave standards of Antics are partly set aside. Banks and co. dust off the keyboards, bass and guitars shine again. The rather monochromatic mood of the second record, never boring but fairly uniform, is shelved here in favor of tracks that differ quite a bit from one another, with some stylistic missteps, occasionally glaring ones, but with a clear intent to escape the impasse by embracing heterogeneity and dynamism. A challenge that can only be considered partly met, more of an "incomplete, try again next time."
"Pioneer To The Falls," minimal and melancholy, stands out right from the start as one of the record's best-judged tracks. An almost atonal Banks, backed by guitars that never overstep, and a Fogarino once again on top form, conjures smoky atmospheres worthy of the best Joy Division, closing the track with a masterful drums-and-keyboards crescendo, in an epic finale. And while "No I in Threesome" is the usual, classic Interpol song, with a chill-inducing opening bassline, "Scale," with its noise reverbs worthy of early U2, leads into the single "Heinrich Maneuver," which rides the same catchy, hooky wake as "Slow Hands" from the previous record (accompanied, it must be said, by a truly dreadful video).
The hurdle of the opening tracks is thus cleared with ease, but venturing into the record's midsection can bring more than one disappointment. "Mammoth," "Pace Is the Trick" and "All Fired Up" all come across as toothless, monotone from the very first guitar strike, and drag wearily to the end. A completely different story applies to the over-five-minute "Rest My Chemistry," marked by a disorienting, almost gothic opening, onto which swelling guitars graft themselves, building genuine walls of noise. Here lies the essence of the rockier, more '80s-rooted Interpol. And while the ninth track, "Who Do You Think?," proves to be pure filler, both "Wrecking Ball" and "Lighthouse" sketch out uncharted territory for the quartet. A celestial flow of guitars, a disturbed-sounding Banks, a slow, measured chamber-music close, and the psychedelic mantra of the final track are perhaps the manifesto of what Interpol could become, a possible turning point for a sound that, after five years of success, is starting to show some wear.
Another passable effort, then, yet one left hanging in mid-air, uncertain in its desire to pay homage to the past while hinting at a possible future.

Dark Pictures

Three years on from Our Love To Admire, Interpol return to the stage with a self-titled album that marks both a step forward and a step back, or if you prefer, a decidedly darker attitude that nonetheless clashes with an inspiration and a knack for giving songs their shine that are increasingly fading.

With the contribution of longtime bassist Carlos D. lost after the recording sessions, replaced live by the ever-present David Pajo, the band releases a record that recaptures the decadent spleen of the debut, but does so without any clear structure, and with little real bite overall. One of the most immediately noticeable elements is Banks's voice, aged, no longer booming and commanding. And Fogarino's drums and the guitar cuts mark the discomfort of a song form that almost never reaches meaningful heights, getting lost in rather impalpable meanders.
Though good moments aren't lacking, there are no more vertical climaxes or emotional surges to be swept away by. There's no "Pda," no "Obstacle 1," not a single riff truly worth remembering or a bassline worth framing. An aura of anonymity permeates the record's forty-five minutes. The dark, resolute mood lights up on "Lights," where a warm, slow-building spleen emerges with real force, stretching its stride as in the best of times. The second chosen single, "Barricade," sounds like it came from the b-sides of Antics; "Safe Without" and "Success," while not bad, travel down already well-trodden paths without truly managing to engage.
"Summer Well" is hummable enough, with a well-placed bassline and nice drumming, but the true surprise of this self-titled "Interpol" is without doubt the captivating "Always Malaise (The Man I Am)": an elegy nearly declaimed in spoken word during the chorus, strings as accompaniment, a feverish bass, piano here and there, and an overall unsettling effect. The dark landscapes of "All Of The Ways," preceded by the convincing drive of "Try It On," open the doors to the closing "The Undoing," which never manages to truly explode, getting lost in a grandiosity that serves no purpose but itself.
The overall feeling is of a band that, while still able to pull out excellent songs, has water up to its neck. The darkest, most introspective album of its career only sharpens the sense of a band that has managed to coast on the dazzling success of its debut, never releasing a truly bad record, but also never able to rise above a passing grade or thereabouts.

Paul Banks, a.k.a. Julian Plenti, had been writing short songs and playing them in some of his city's clubs since as far back as 1996, but it was only ten years later, thanks to the purchase of a music-composing software, Logic Pro, that he was able to have total creative control and thus focus, during breaks granted by his main band, on making a solo record. It wasn't until August 2009 that Julian Plenti Is… Skyscraper was finally released, produced by the artist himself with the help of Peter Katis, sound engineer on the first two Interpol albums.
Compared to the band's dark, fast, effects-driven rock, Plenti's debut favors a folk-alt-post-rock sound, achieved with the help of multiple instruments, strings above all, and a touch of Morse Code synths.
The tracks most similar to Interpol's own stand out immediately: the nervous, effective "Fun That We Have" and "Fly As You Might," and the excellent single "Games For Days," where you can hear the powerful, metronomic drumming of Sam Fogarino, his bandmate in the group he belongs to. But the most gripping compositions turn out to be "Only If You Run," which hooks the listener with a layered guitar sound, "Skyscraper," a wonderful acoustic ballad that is innocuous and repetitive only on the surface, since it builds its main melody on a handful of notes and a short, obsessive refrain, and the sweet lullaby of "On The Esplanade," shortened compared to its original version.
Plenti also achieves a positive result with tracks like the reflective closer "H," with its Eastern-tinged flavor, and the danceable "Unwind," both enriched by the sound of a trumpet, while viola and violin, present in nearly all the other tracks, are set aside here.
Surprisingly, some songs initially planned for the tracklist end up missing from the final record, such as the slow, gentle "The Larynx That You Have" and "Cellophane," which would perhaps have been more welcome than the saccharine, forgettable "Girl On The Sporting News."
Ultimately, not a landmark work, as can also be gathered from the not-exactly-enthusiastic reception from critics and audiences alike, but a pleasant record nonetheless, one that manages to carve out its own distance from the Interpol experience.

A return to the roots

Then 2014 arrives, along with a single that leaves many stunned. "All The Rage Back Home" is a mix of repressed rage spat back out with violence, a track that seems to recapture the unique style of the debut, filtering it through the positive (and not-so-positive) experiences that have marked Interpol's past twelve years. Many cry miracle, convinced of a forceful comeback to center stage, and yet once again there are those who remain entirely unconvinced even by this seemingly unassailable track. El Pintor (an anagram of Interpol and the album's title) flows by like a pleasure, through the usual echoes of Seventies wave and post-punk. In the first half, from the already-mentioned opener/single through to "Same Town, New Story," we get the very same smoky, desperate big-apple atmospheres that made the fortune of Turn On The Bright Lights, and it's here that El Pintor most emphatically commands admiration, before dipping in the middle section and returning with insolence toward the end (with "Tidal Wave," an almost pop-wave track and perhaps the album's one true stylistic variant, and "Twice as Hard").
Paul Banks is in top form, and he proves it even in quieter tracks like the graceful "My Blue Supreme," and the same can be said of Daniel Kessler, who paints darker, more powerful riffs than ever with his guitar, and of Sam Fogarino, a true master at crafting driving rhythms.
Lyrically, Banks once again builds an imagery made of modern, decadent romanticism, of trepidations sometimes sick and deep, of stories brushing against human tragedy or emotions swollen with devastating melancholy. Themes of an enveloping natural warmth that clash, in part, with the coldness of the music.
It's neither the end nor a new beginning, just a record that deserves a few listens but won't give you more than you can already imagine. Interpol have said everything they had to say, and now they're just forcefully restating the point.

"The Rover," the first single chosen by Interpol to herald their sixth effort, proves to be a deliberately revealing choice. A dry, lashing guitar riff, a rhythm section compressed, practically flattened, by Dave Fridmann's production, and Paul Banks's tense vocals showed an unprecedented leanness for the Manhattan band. The subsequent singles, "Number 10" and "If You Really Love Nothing" - the latter a cynical pop ballad with a guitar repeatedly diving into darkness - pushed less insistently in this direction, though they remained far removed from the airy, sometimes epic, openings Interpol have accustomed us to over nearly twenty years of career.
The cover of the new album Marauder (2018) is just as telling. That man dressed in grey, pictured in a cold, bare conference room, is Attorney General Elliot Richardson, the scrupulously honest official who stood up to Nixon's pressure during the Watergate scandal. Such an artwork is a choice that not only draws a chilling parallel between today's political climate and the Watergate past, but also declares strong independence and the will to go its own way - stubborn and contrary, as we'd say back home. Marauder is indeed home to tracks that are thorny, suffocating, leaden, often lacking proper choruses, the kind of thing genuinely hard to imagine on old Interpol records.
"Complications," for instance, scratched as it is by a rigid, iron-willed guitar determined never to explode, is intent on building up tension rather than releasing it. On "Stay In Touch," which advances inexorably, pushed along by a grumbling bass and a bristly riff, Banks doesn't even really sing: he mutters to himself, occasionally bursting out and suddenly raising his pitch. Sudden bursts of dissonant guitar make the track even more elusive and difficult. Sure, there are a couple of tracks fit for singing along at shows. "Flight Of Fancy," for example, whose clear, snappy chorus will help keep less adventurous fans on board, but also "Mountain Child," a terrific indie number embroidered by Daniel Kessler with one of his liveliest riffs in recent memory.
A shame about a couple of filler tracks - "Party's Over," which never quite takes off as it should, or the single "Number 10" itself - otherwise, instead of talking about an excellent restart, we'd be talking about one of the best post-punk albums of the 2010s.

Here, less than a year on from "Marauder," comes the EP "A Fine Mess." Still working alongside Dave Fridmann and with the addition of Kaines & Tom A.D., the three musicians shut themselves up in a studio near New York State and record five new tracks. The sense of "mess" is recreated right away in the artwork that accompanies the release: a series of photographs developed from an old roll of film abandoned at a disused police station in Detroit. But while such visual context and the title might suggest a chaos that's anything but "fine," the EP's overall mood is at times downright euphoric - as euphoric as Interpol can get, that is. "Well, if the mood's right, there's some hype, some currency," and whether it's about a partner or a comrade in arms, Banks makes himself clear from the very first beats of opener "Fine Mess": "You and me make a fine mess." Musically, we find the raw power of the early days more measured, the vocals initially grainy and matted together with the roar of the other instruments. A sonic and compositional mood that ties this track and the other advance single "The Weekend" to the freshness and impact of "Marauder." The arrival of a riff well known to fans heralds the intense "Real Life," a track already aired at recent shows, whose studio recording does it equal justice. The gripping guitar interplay of the lively "No Big Deal" carries us "from the beach to the strip club," while it's left to the powerful, tormented "Thrones" to close things out in style. With "A Fine Mess," Interpol add five more tracks to the positive outcomes of "Marauder," further confirming a current state of vital, inspired form.

Noir Vulnerability: The Other Side Of Make-Believe

Let's get it out of the way right off the bat: Interpol's new album is divisive. There are those who love it precisely because it's different from what one would expect from the New Yorkers, and those who, for that very reason, find it hard to swallow, if not downright pointless. The truth is that The Other Side Of Make-Believe (2022) is not an immediate work; it demands constant attention from the listener and several listens before it can be understood. Only then will it be possible to grasp its beauty amid the cracks, small miniatures that seem insignificant only on the surface, onto which expectations, ideas and hopes can be poured. But, more than anything else, The Other Side Of Make-Believe is an imperfect work. The melodies are bare and broken, so much so that some tracks seem to be the result of cutting and trimming ("Greenwich" in particular), and everything is laden with an inextricable spleen. There's something tragic in the way Paul Banks's voice sounds here, in the proud assertion of his own vulnerability. But what could have been a strength becomes a weakness because of the mix, with the instruments sitting too high above the vocal tracks, making for listening that's at times chaotic; on speakers, the singer's deep voice seems reduced to an indistinct mumble recorded in the next room. Not a minor problem for non-audiophile listeners.
Already with "Toni," the first single released in April, Interpol had declared their intention to play with their cards on the table: piano, rhythm section up front, crepuscular vocals and a stripped-down melody in which the song form is partly deconstructed. Closer to the band's classic repertoire, however, is the other single "Fables," which nonetheless introduces a few new elements and boasts one of the loveliest, purest lyrics of the bunch.
It may come as a surprise, but the album's most evident point of reference seems to be jazz: you can hear it in the slapback delay present on both guitar and drums, and in the mid-tempo setup of most of the tracks. It's therefore no surprise that the tracks that work best are the ballads, from "Something Changed," an incisive depiction of melancholy that wouldn't look out of place on a The National album, to the plea for help of "Passenger," by way of the enchanting "Into The Night" and the noir glow of "Big Shot City."
Among the more dynamic tracks, "Gran Hotel" stands out, succeeding in its aim of carrying us through the streets of Cozumel alongside Paul Banks - finally more energetic here - and infusing his (and our) melancholy with fresh resolve.
"Mr Credit," with a riff lifted from "Rest My Chemistry," already seems set to be one of the record's most beloved tracks, but here Kessler, while as impeccable as ever with his usual staccato riffs, shows a repetitiveness already present elsewhere on the record. Closer to the sound of "Antics," and not above a few Pixies echoes, the excellent "Renegade Hearts" fares even better.

The shadows of the forgotten 2010 self-titled album loom, in certain ways, over The Other Side Of Make-Believe: exactly as happened on Interpol, the songs move horizontally, never chasing climaxes or dizzying emotional and musical peaks. Their construction proceeds through small suggestions, so much so that at times they seem to spin in place without a clear destination, even if guided by a stubborn inner harmony far removed from any didacticism or settled stylistic tropes. And yet one cannot fail to credit the New Yorkers with the courage to step off the beaten path and still be capable of writing decadent, lopsided songs, true to that leitmotif repeated to the point of obsession in "Renegade Hearts" and smothered in deafening guitar noodling: "make escape art."

Muzz is a supergroup trio made up of the Interpol frontman on voice and guitar, Jonathan Fire Eater drummer and later/related incarnation The Walkmen's Matt Barrick, and multi-instrumentalist Josh Kaufman, also on guitar. Proof of their long-standing acquaintance comes in an unmissable photo posted on the band's official Twitter profile, where barely-teenage Banks and Kaufman ironically lay the foundations of the project all the way back in 1994. After briefly crossing paths over the years in their respective careers, with Muzz the three New York friends and colleagues join forces for a work impeccable in its arrangements and production, one that moves with full command between art-rock and folk. The game of spotting parallels with their other projects is short-lived, especially for those hoping for something Interpol-adjacent, since the declared reference points are Leonard Cohen, Neil Young, the Rolling Stones and Bob Dylan. It opens with "Bad Feeling": an intro enriched by warm closing horns intertwined with a female voice, chosen also as the first preview of the record, followed by "Evergreen," both aching and delicate. With "Red Western Sky" the pace picks up, and the singer's voice and lyrics (co-written with the other two musicians) paint an even sharper picture of the emotional landscape the record moves through. The piano textures of "Broken Tambourine" are followed by the engaging "Knuckleduster," one of the record's high points. Other noteworthy passages include "Everything Like It Used To Be," lovely, simple and effective, and the aforementioned "How Many Days," with its fine drumming and distorted solo. No other particular standout moments emerge over the course of a well-made record that nonetheless lacks the bite to truly grab the listener. "Muzz" is a pleasant addition to the discographic constellation of its members, but calling it essential would be a stretch.

Return To New York

What markedly boosts Interpol's standing is This Mirror Weights A Ton (2026), a work of sophisticated, subtle, ambiguous charm that, true to its title, unfolds as a play of reflections between what has been and what is. From the verses of "Iron City" emerges one of the loveliest lines ever devoted to the band's relationship with New York (“I was here before/ you can’t see me anymore/ I have lived a life/ and I left you there inside”), words that show just how much the return to their home city has reoxygenated the band's inspiration. The brand-new lineup, expanded to include longtime live bassist Brad Truax (also among the songwriters) and keyboardist Brandon Curtis, together with production by Andrew Wyatt, has visibly reinvigorated the band's enthusiasm, pushing the songs beyond yet another nocturnal rehash of established models and toward a new, dawn-like freshness. The compositional richness that submerges Paul Banks's aching voice is like a chromed fog; a hazy quality that intensifies the light at the point where memory and present fuse into an unprecedented reverb. The string and synthesizer interventions help stretch out the overall atmosphere, lightening and thinning it, clothing the usual sentimental unease and claustrophobia in the blinding glow of an artificial vision. A style immediately apparent in the opening title track "This Mirror Weights A Ton," a surreal mirage of its countless selves, a three-faced mirror held up by Fogarino's dark, distant beat; an atmospheric void in which Kessler's airy guitar and Juliet Seger-Banks's backing vocals drift, adrift. “Fade in Symphonic/ Like the phone that’s dialing/ Alone Again/ Unknown again”. An overall slowing-down that finds, in its spirit of waiting and its pronounced production baroqueness, a convincing and moving evocative power.
The electronic transfigurations of "So Rides The Reindeer," in which the synth touches seem lifted straight from an Air record, or the liquid, rippling piano of "Enemy" and "Sudden," are remote, at times disorienting settings, capable of heightening the nostalgic, melancholy charge of the compositions without ever sinking them. Remarkable too is the already-mentioned "Iron City," a long dialogue with a majestic, generative figure, immersed in urban, solitary, dystopian glimpses. A touch that also enriches the album's more post-punk moments, such as "See Out Loud," the single "Wings On Fire," or the loose-limbed "Wake Up" and "Bird And The Serpent," in which Banks's voice once again slithers with class between Kessler's sharpest, most incendiary chords, drawing on a notable variety of outcomes and solutions that obey the physics of overtaking: pulling back in order to gain more momentum.

Returning to the place where it all began, Interpol have finally come to terms with themselves, reached an awareness of just how inevitable change is, yet shown that they haven't lost the dark, decadent heart that has always accompanied them.

(Contributions by Paolo Sforza, Marco Bercella, Paolo Agnoletto, Silvio Pizzica, Michele Corrado, Alessio Belli, Giulia Quaranta, Luca Viti)

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