New Music Tuesday - Part II: Interpol

When bands change their sound, even slightly, separate camps will form to defend each side.
Old or new Beatles?
Joy Division or New Order?
Stones Roses or Second Coming (ok, so that one's not really a debate.)
for Interpol fans, the lines are already set:
Antics or Turn on the Bright Lights?

Why is this a debate? Is a change from atmospheric post-punk to a slightly cleaner rockier post-punk really a leap in musical philosophy? Something Awful's characterization was a favorite:

they no longer sound like they're ripping off Joy Division. In songs like "Slow Hands" and "Length of Love," it is apparent that they've now taken the great artistic leap of ripping off bands that ripped off Joy Division...

With all seriousness, Interpol has always had the same basic sound, just slightly tweaked from album to album. Our Love to Admire is yet another puff into the same balloon: They cover more surface area, but it's coming from the same mouth. Not necessarily a bad thing, if you like the mouth it's coming from. Paul Banks' vocal delivery is certainly what I'd call a good thing.

"Pioneer to the Falls" thankfully replaces "Next Exit" as an album opener. Gone is the cringe-worthy organ. A few tender piano keys set a tender opening which slowly builds into Interpol's trademark simplistic, but atmospheric guitar picking. Paul Bank's trademark gloom is made all the more evident during an acapella interlude: "Show me the dirt pile and I will pray that the soul can take three stowaways." The isolating lyrics are mitigated by a haunting mixture of piano, guitar and a somewhat distant sounding herald trumpet.

The whole album sounds a bit closer to Turn on the Bright Lites in production and overall effectiveness, so that's certainly a plus. "There's No I in Threesome" pounds with pleading and intensity throughout with bright piano and ghostly string like noises surround the production. More importantly, Banks sounds more heartfelt than ever during his almost tearful pleas, "Babe, it's time we gave something new a try/ though alone we may fight, so just let us be free tonight." It'd sound almost touching, if it wasn't about adding a little spice into the bedroom.

The band has it's glimpses of single appeasement, such as with "Heinrich Maneuver," and almost processed single, that sounds a bit out of place amidst the eerie whirring and howls that accompany the rest of the album, but as a driving single, it's quite effective.

"All Fired Up" hands us a precise rhythm to march to and attitude to match. As does "Mammoth" which uses a large bell to punctuate the beginning, middle and end of this "Lengths of Love" imitator. However, it certainly is more intense than "Lengths." Just as Banks asks "Just spare me the suspense," the song enters a calm introspective pause that seems to pain Banks even more. The song has more emotional highs than anything on "Antics," helped along by Banks' soaring, yet aching vocals.

However, for the rest of the album, the pulsating post-punk rock of songs like "PDA" and "Slow Hands" have given way to something a bit more detached and meandering.

Banks performance is far more versatile. While his Ian Curtis impression is always appreciated by goth rockers everywhere, the over-enunciated force with which Paul Banks seems to rip every word violently from his vocal chords subsides somewhat here. Whereas usually sounds close to spontaneous combustion when straining for notes, he often sings with affected vocals, lending a little more humanity to his normally demanding caterwaul. On "Wrecking Ball", Banks weaves his words through a chanting background, while reducing his representation to mere footnotes beneath a quickly fading orchestra, hinting at Interpol's first love, classical music.

"Lighthouse" isn't the best closer, however. It's an uncertain ending. The roughly strummed guitars and accompanying instruments come in and out, as if matching the rise and fall of the tide. Banks simply ponders with little urgency: "What do the waves have to say now?" Eventually the Doppler-style instrumentals cascade into brief, but triumphant wall of sound, before eventually dying off with little other fanfare. It's an experimental route to take, but promising, considering their soon-to-be tiresome calling card so far.

In short - this album is closer to Turn on the Bright Lights than Antics. Antics stripped down the sound and lost most of the passion that Interpol played with. Here, we have the passion, but much the same music procedure as on the last two albums. It may be somewhat of a retread, but one that at least satisfies more than a taste of their former glory.

New Music Tuesday: Spoon

The second I mentioned the new Spoon album, my friend Mary laughed and pulled out the pitchfork quote everyone has used: "They're just the poor man's Billy Joel." Despite the infectious wit and self-indulgent puffery of Pitchfork, I disagreed. With "The Way We Get By," I disagreed. With "The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentine." Even when a Jaguar ad featured "I Turn My Camera On," I stood by the musical integrity of Britt Daniels and crew, if only for "Girls Can Tell."

I could never understand the derision. When Spoon released Telefono, they were looked at as the heir to the Pixies' mantle. Mention that connection today and you'll get spit on. Nothing of their earlier, rougher sound survives after "A Series of Sneaks." Once Elektra dropped them from their label, they turned towards the pop rock drawing board and charted their way into every indie kid's play list, if only a few songs at a time.

However, their validity in the indie world has been challenged from time to time, especially with "Gimme Fiction" and the mid-album dive into throw away rock like "Sister Jack." The album starts out with a sharp bite, and ends with corked teeth. For such reasons, the indie music community looks at an album title like ga ga ga ga ga and stands ready to pounce. Well, I can only hope Pitchfork isn't that imposing. After all, the hailed an group of Ace of Base knock-offs as having the best album of the year. Give me a break.

Thankfully, after Ga ga ga ga ga, I feel justified in my defense.

"Don't Make me a Target" checks in with the basics - guitar, bass and drums - before slowly intensifying. Daniel's spits lyrics that suspiciously sound aimed at the Bush administration. If they aren't, they're at least appropriate.

Here come a man from the stars/ we don't know why he goes so far/ keeps on marching along, beating his drum ... When you reach back in his mind/ feels like he's breaking the law/ there's something back there he's got that nobody knows. He never claimed to say what he says/ smells like the insides of closets and stairs, the kind where nobody goes.

If that didn't solidify the point, Daniel's quickly follows his under-the-breath condemnations with a pointed demand: "Don't Make me a Target." While this sort of lyrical unrest continues throughout the album, the instrumentation and rhythm changes from song to song.

From this sinister strut, Daniels throws us violently into "The Ghost of you Lingers," a desperate pounding of piano chords, off key at first, then taking flight with Daniels vocals, who has applied so much reverb as to suggest he recorded the vocals out of his own body. Daniels sings as a man torn asunder, with multiple voices pleading for restoration. It's an ethereal track, and stands in stark contrast to the pop instrumentation of the rest of this album. However, the lyrics follow a theme of frustration and division.

"You've Got Yr Cherry Bomb" throws another curve, invoking 60's style pop (the chimes at the beginning almost reminded me of Motown) and an upbeat driving beat complete with horns and bubblegum intentions.

The roller coaster of moods continues as "Don't you Evah" and "Rhthm and Soul" set a steady beat and groove. This sounds like a safe and familiar territory, until descending into "Eddie's Ragga." Here, Daniels laments his tortured relationship with a lover, going back between wide-eyed contentment and isolation. The sinister bass work peering from behind the occasional stabs of guitar enhances Daniel's despondent and resigned lyrics.

"The Underdog" almost seems triumphant in comparison, with a the fierce acoustic strumming explodes into a blossoming of trumpets, as if spring has broken free from winter. Yet, this isn't a rousing anthem, but a warning regarding not heeding warnings: "But you won't hear from the messenger/don't want to know about something that you don't understand/you have no fear of the underdog/that's why you will not survive." It can be taken as a shot toward Bush, toward Elektra, perhaps toward the music industry. Whoever the target, it still cuts deep. Needless to say, it's an expertly crafted pop song with a clear message, something lacking in pop songs, in general.

The album's last three are just as solid tunes, but nothing groundbreaking. "Finer Feelings" laments over true love and commercial appeal with a welcome re-entry of light distortion and a steady-beat (although there is a brief interlude in the song that seems unnecessary). "My Little Japanese Cigarette Case" remains brief and to the point, with flourishes of zithers and piano trills.

By the time "Black Like Me" roles around, Daniel's asks his departing audience for someone to take care of him tonight. It will have seemed too quick. Daniel's may have lashed out at everyone around him, beat himself up and lamented his position, but he's already looking for recovery. What's more, you might be hitting replay, as the album blasts by in only 36 minutes and ends with abrupt silence.

Not a second is wasted, not a track is filler. Certainly, Spoon only needed that much time to prove they're a few steps above Gimme Fiction. Or "Uptown Girl," for that matter.

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Interpol, later today.

It's a Bit Complicated - Review

When I grew up as a kid, I reveled in the geekiest sort of music possible - Weird Al Yankovic, mainly. Despite the fact Amish Paradise only works as a parody while Gangsta's Paradise is popular, I loved the genius nature of the songs. Sure, he may steal melodies, but it's usually to make fun of the rest of society. It's silly, but it's still commentary of SOME substance.

That's the same thing I thought when listening to "Formed a Band," by Art Brut. Then I listened to "Bang Bang Rock and Roll." Now it wasn't just commentary, it wasn't just parody, it was all scathing satire. For me, it was the perfect dismantling of the indie subculture. "Modern Art" got far too excited about Matisse for the listener to keep a straight face, "Bang Bang Rock and Roll" finally echoed my groans over the Velvet Underground's indie deification, and Bad Weekend gave the most accurate a tragic summation of the culture with one line: "Popular Culture No Longer Applies to Me." The album was like a punk rebirth in itself. At the same time, the series of stories as told through Eddie Argos' eyes seemed closer to a modern Quadrophenia: Jimmy had the Mods, Eddie had the indie kids.

After awhile, this grand illusion wore off. The album was still great, but it is not the indictment of the music scene as I (or, Pitchfork) thought. Yet, critics still hailed Argos as a new lyrical genius. One reviewer posited him as a modern day Elvis Costello (as Mr. Costello dabbles more in Jazz, these days?).

Well, he's not Elvis Costello, he's not Mark E. Smith, he's not even Ian Brown. He's just Eddie Argos. If he had expanded on the new album, perhaps we could start plotting out the direction of his greatness amongst British rock legends.

Unfortunately, that have to wait.

It's a Bit Complicated starts off with a punch of guitar that was somewhat subdued in BBR&R, probably thanks to the Jasper, the replacement for Chris Chinchilla, who left the band after their first album. With the treble turned up to 11 on "Pump Up the Volume," Argos starts the theme of awkward romantic experiences by singing about a lover torn between his girlfriend and the pop song on the radio.

"Pump up the Volume" and "Direct Hit" may be radio-friendly for it's catchy chorus and head-bopping guitar licks, but Argos isn't talking to the kids about anything all that groundbreaking: "Move your feet like your shoes don't fit/get on the dance floor/ it's a direct hit!" It may get you dancing, but the laughter doesn't last like it used to.

The lyrical genius of Argos is ready for digestion on a few tracks such as "Post Soothing Out", "Sound of Summer" and "Nag Nag Nag Nag." The first two tracks tread the same kind of lovesick lamentations Argos has reflected on so brilliantly ever since he wrote "These Animal Menswe@r" at 15. The blunt semi-spoken delivery mixed with the pointed reactions to traditional pop music mix perfectly here. Yet, Nag Nag Nag Nag has the most promise for the future. It's the only track where Argos takes the aim at his adolescence: "Is it the sound of a man wrestling with emotion/ or the sound of him losing/and causing commotion?"

The rest of the album is a mixed bag - St. Pauli bounces along on an uninspired delivery by Argos and a back-to-basics bass line that sounds tired and repetitive. Late Sunday Evening takes a nice instrumental turn by adding a section of horns to cap the song off, but the lyrics don't resonate with the same unique subject matter as other efforts. The same goes for Blame it On the Trains, which is probably the lowest point on this album.

The appeal of Art Brut isn't that they're "Just talking...to the kids" but being brutally honest and personal. Anyone can write a love song, but only Argos can write a song about going flaccid with sincere emotion. That's what made them dynamic; the breakneck punk rock backing was always just a bonus. Here, it sounds like they've spent more time on the latter, which has allowed the subject matter to become average stuff.

One can only hope Argos will speak volumes louder than he does here, or Art Brut may become the novelty I feared they'd become. Still enjoyable, but silly.