The impressive thing about Interpol has always been the refinement of their sound, its remarkable sense of purpose. Sure, when the band debuted, a huge share of conversation revolved around the other acts they sounded like. But no matter how familiar any of the parts were, the band had welded them together into a whole that was instantly recognizable and easy to grasp-- they'd carved out the simple, narrow box of how an Interpol song worked, and they could put it across clearly, quickly, and thrillingly. Maybe the suits they wore were supposed to say something about style, but they also said something about professionalism: This was a band with a clear agenda, and they were all business about it, every last detail engineered to work. And it did work, which led the band to great success and only one little problem: Their box is a small one, and it's been difficult for them to sneak out of it.
That dilemma's surely not lost on them. This self-titled album is their last recorded with Carlos D.-- the bass player whose sense of pacing was the secret motor of their best work-- and one of the good things about it is that it's very honest. It's an album about exhaustion, confusion, the hollowness of success, the bitter feeling of having few options worth chasing, and the realization that endlessly satisfying your own desires can turn you into a pretty shitty person. Paul Banks' lyrics seem preoccupied with what kind of man he's turned out to be, from the declaration, "I'm a good guy," to a song actually subtitled "The Man I Am". He kicks off the album by announcing that he's found success, but he doesn't sound remotely pleased about it.
Elsewhere he's pleading for someone to just tell him what to do, because his own desires are leading him in the wrong directions. The songs keep skirting away from hooks and tension in favor of still air, exhausted drizzles of guitar, and portentous piano figures; the big hooks and builds they do try out seem all the more half-hearted and workmanlike, surrounded as they are by the sound of a band wondering why it bothers trying anything in the first place. The whole thing sounds like the eighth day of an endless party where everyone's already slept together, burned themselves out on drugs that used to be fun, and developed systems of grudges and resentments that make it barely worth talking to one another. And yet the party goes on and there they sit, sighing bitterly while confetti pours down and the drinks go around.
The problem is that the music feels that way, too-- and who'd have thought that this band, of all bands, would miss the mark on a bleak, depressive album? Plenty of great records have been made from this end-of-the-rope feeling; I'm pretty confident the members of Interpol own a few by the Cure. And it'd be the height of arrogance to suggest that Interpol should be making records about feelings other than the ones they have. It's just that, as a listener, it's easy to get the feeling that any other version of this band-- happy Interpol, smarmy Interpol, pissed-off Interpol, the tense-and-edgy Interpol of their debut-- would be more entertaining to listen to than the tapped-out, unsure act that shows up here, sounding like people who have come to loathe certain motions but can't stop going through them.
The good news is that they're too skilled, experienced, and important to make a record that's just a mess, and for a while there's nothing so terrible about this one. In its first half, songs are carefully assembled; "Summer Well" packs some gorgeous hooks; the band's rhythm section is always a treat; and if nothing else there's always that singular Interpol atmosphere, the pure sound of a group a lot of us will always like hearing. That sound is compelling enough to keep someone searching for a secret payoff to this record, some dark heart to sink into. The problems here, though, aren't in execution-- they're more existential. Cross over into the wrecked second half, and every song makes this sound more like an album that's not really ready to seethe, not really cathartic, not really full of painful hopeless beauty or any of those other things that make bleak records worthwhile. With every listen it just sounds like more of a fucking drag. For a moment, "All of the Ways" seems like it's prepared to lean into its own feelings of helplessness, and turn into the kind of desolate, bottomless song that feels good to fall into-- but then Banks can't help trying to sing it into something grand, trudging hopelessly through the same old routine. The ninth day of the party.
It's too bad. The album is asking honest and important questions about disillusionment. What do you do when you can have too much of what you want? What do you do when you get it and find you don't want it anymore? How do you manage your own desires and turn out a decent person? The songs might be more enjoyable if they seemed to present some glimmer of an answer, or at least some consolation-- if it could convince you that this, this music right here, was the payoff for all the agonizing, not just another job that's barely worth doing.
