It’s hard to understand what the point of Interpol is. This four-piece (now three) emerged from New York more than a decade ago to a chorus of breathless comparisons to Joy Division, but with none of the deep sense of bleakness that the late Ian Curtis brought to that pioneering band. They have since edged towards a shimmering, epic sound reminiscent of REM and U2, but without the former’s intimacy or the latter’s grandiosity. Perhaps Interpol are the band to turn to when the one you really want is either defunct, too expensive, or dead.
El Pintor is unlikely to convince anyone but the already converted that they need Interpol in their lives. It’s the album equivalent of a glossy fashion spread featuring a model reading a philosophical work in a Paris café: has the appearance of being meaningful; isn’t really. On All the Rage Back Home, singer Paul Banks repeats “I keep falling, maybe half the time” until you suspect he might really be thinking about something profound, but since this follows all kinds of guff about 18 summers, lady lovers and not needing a maid any more, he probably isn’t.
That style-over-substance feeling runs through El Pintor, an album that contains enough reverberating notes, shimmering guitars and repeated lyrics to weave into the tapestry of modern life respectably enough, but with little that is affecting or provoking. Everything is Wrong has a great new-wave-style bass line and My Blue Supreme showcases Banks’s sonorous voice to good effect, but you don’t miss them when they’re gone. There’s stronger character on Twice as Hard, the last song on the album and the only one where you feel you are in the presence of self-expression that hasn’t been filtered through the lens of self-image, but by then it’s a case of too little, too late.
(Soft Limit, out Sept 13)