Rock is dangerous. This much we know. The bright lights have an enduring, hypnotic appeal, but darkness and demons lurk at every turn. For every immaculately conceived success story, there's a knackered, black-eyed soul leering back, a smashed statistic, a ruined man. A Doherty-esque dalliance and you're gone. Do a Barrett and your mind and senses are lost forever. The dangers are numerous, and for an innocent music journalist, the story is no different, frankly.
Ruined drug hell, wild jungle sex orgies, champagne thunderbird Transatlantic missions whilst flying the plane. We've all been there. Most days in fact. However, one pit-fall you perhaps wouldn't expect to encounter – not least because of the rather low, decrepit rock factor – is the incapacitating handicap of deafness. For tonight, LAUNCH is confronted with the very reality of failing hearing. Alternatively, the Academy's sound is being run by someone's mother rather than the actual hoary mutha you might have expected.
As Interpol sweep onto the stage, we have a vision of fully realised iconic flair. The four coolest men in town, have, of course, seemingly spent as much time on their dashing attire as they have on the songs. Good attitude. Sharp black jackets and smart haircuts meet a dark backdrop of red light, bleeding across the venue as the band lean into "Next Exit", opening track from "Antics", their plum second LP. However, it's terribly lightweight, at least to these battered ears. The sound is muted, weak, as if Interpol are playing in the distance at Wembley hell, amps up to three. Where they should be rampant, intense and propulsive, Interpol are meek. This is scout rock.
Oddly, much of the audience don't appear troubled by this rather crucial lack of impact, happy to usher their heroes through the biggest UK date of their career, unfazed by such a dumbed-down experience. A fusillade of drop-dead killers – "Evil", "Public Pervert", "C'mere" - are shot out of a canon like a busted bag of feathers. Banks, Kessler, Dengler and Fogarino, presumably having no such sonic problems with their monitors, thrash elegantly, stylishly but listlessly.
LAUNCH is forced to approach the stage and insert our head into the left-hand speaker stack, utterly fearless of the madness inherent in such a move. Much better. The band stretch "Slow Hands" into a tense, elastic outro and then snap into the rocking, incessant charge of "Not Even Jail" and we're finally off. The bruised cityscape of "NYC" leaks from the stage like an opiate, before "PDA" sweeps the crowd away in a wave of divebombing guitar havoc and red and white strobe blindness. A brief high is snatched from the blunt jaws of the Brixton Academy.
The next day, we have our ears syringed and buy two tickets to see Editors at their next London show, because despite the dangers, rock must go on.
