The name’s a bit of a giveaway, although the options aren’t much cop. CIA or FBI would be too crass for any American band to contemplate, Mossad too provocatively partisan, KGB and Stasi too clunkily old-school and MI6 simply too dull. Interpol, however, strikes exactly the right note of noir-ish cool, with its overtones of the 60s spy flick and ‘continental’ intrigue.
It’s not just their uniformly dark, sharp-cut suits, nor bass player Carlos Dengler’s comic kiss curl and his way with an unlit cigarette that make Interpol seem Euro-fixated. Their music is shot through with British post-punk references like silver speckles quartz. It’s because of vocalist Paul Banks that Interpol have been tagged Joy Division copyists, but his tone is far sweeter and more flexible than Curtis’s and behind him, Daniel Kessler’s guitar chimes and ripples with an upbeat melodicism that had no place in Joy Division’s gloomy world. The Smiths, Psychedelic Furs and Wire are most obviously Interpol’s touchstones, but if some influences were cribbed from records (and "Say Hello To The Angels" tonight sounds more like a rewrite of "This Charming Man" than ever), then Interpol’s sense of alienation was surely absorbed by osmosis.
That said, they’re greeted by tumultuous applause from fans packed so tightly that your average sardine might voice health and safety concerns. Cast in dramatic chiaroscuro, Interpol set about becoming the living, breathing expression of their debut album’s title, "Turn On The Bright Lights". Most songs – "PDA" and "NYC" especially (both already marked as modern classics) - hinge on a brooding, slow-building cool, but are then blasted by such dazzling brightness it’s like they’ve been split open by fork lightning. Black-grey-black-blinding white is Interpol’s trademark dynamic, and it’s a thrilling one.
The set is only lightly peppered with tunes from imminent sophomore album "Antics", but a shift is apparent from the second song in. The broken military drum beat of "Evil" opens it right up, diffusing Interpol’s trademark claustrophobia, while Banks plaintively murmurs, “why can’t we just look the other way?” like a man cursed by his own perceptiveness. "Narc" pivots casually on the urgent guitar riff of "London Calling" and the widescreen, cliff-top breeziness of "Slow Hands" suggests early U2 or Comsat Angels. Banks is a fine lyricist and although only poetic snatches can be heard over the clamour behind, it makes them all the more potent. “I’m sick of this town, I’ve seen my faces change,” he declares in "Say Hello To The Angels" and, over and over in a dizzying, pre-encore "PDA", “sleep tight, grim right, we have 200 couches where you can sleep tight, grim right.”
Tonight, Interpol provide a giddy ride through their dramatic darklands and, although the landscape’s familiar, the lighting’s a little different. That harsh high beam has been replaced here and there with low-watt spots. It might take some adjusting to, but it suits them pretty well.
