Many years ago, in another era and a totally different headspace, this building hosted an act of grand art rock pretension. Before a performance by the impeccably off-kilter, pre-'True', Spandau Ballet (quite literally dancing about architecture), style journalist Robert Elms read aloud a psuedish passage about "the dance of perfection". Tonight, all it takes is a prolonged burst of dry ice (so Eighties!) and the appearance of five more earnest fops in suits, and we're back in those gloriously bohemian times once again.
The problem with nostalgia, of course, is that everything is smaller than you remember it to be - and, hardly visible in their New York thrift mobster chic, Interpol have to be the shortest band to have ever huddled around a scratched copy of 'Unknown Pleasures'. One wag calls for boxes for the "bonsai Joy Division", but the group don't hear a word. They're too busy thinking themselves into the correct mindset: a little more emotional intensity, a little less action please.
Mostly, it works a treat. When he's not turning his back on the crowd to check his hair is just so (Adolf Wilde, in a particularly louche phase), Carlos is king of the ominous bassline. Guitarist Daniel runs the full gamut from The Chameleons to Duritti Column (country and western!), while Paul sings like he has a front row seat for the decline of western civilisation. Think Ian Curtis, but also throw in an observational distance, the sense that he's viewing all of this trauma from afar, like Stephen Merrit or Paul Auster.
It's a very New York brand of gloom mongering, naturally, informed by the dark undercurrents of paranoia and anxiety that got to make the city one of the most alluring in the world. What's bizarre, however, is the feeling that this is a strand of Americana that can only really make sense in the UK. Why else does Paul sing of "pavements" when he ought to be plumping for the more grittily authentic "sidewalks"? This is borrowed romance being sold back to the old country.
The songs mostly travel in straight lines. They're propelled by a gathering momentum: surging and receding, careering and stuttering, but always moving forward. This works fine when they have their eye on an ultimate destination - 'PDA' and 'Obstacle 2' are especially excellent, heading straight over the cliff edge without a seconds hesitation - but a few songs get going with no real idea of what to do next. In these instances, Interpol suddenly feel terribly hollow, like they're going to grow very tiresome very quickly.
The question of where they go now (apart from shopping for platform heels) is a pertinent one. Their controlled emotion is freeze frame superb, but the problem with controlled emotion is that it can sometimes seem very cold. Much better is 'NYC', an almost lovelorn paean to the city of shadows that sees Paul being affected by his surroundings rather than stepping back from them. Best of all, though, is the ending of 'Obstacle 1', where Interpol step up a gear, Paul hits a falsetto, the momentum pushes ever onwards, and - there it is! - the wheels leave the ground and we're airbourne.
Many years ago, an act of grand art rock pretension led to a million youth club slow dances and fifteen minutes of soap opera menace. The same fate, you suspect, is unlikely ever to befall Interpol.
