Metropolis, Fremantle, Australia. 21st July, 2005. Photos by Chris Irvine.
It could just be that Interpol are one of the most misunderstood bands of our time. If I scan through the popular music press, I see claims that they are on one express train down to the dark side, the new Goth chic, Joy Division-esque, the new low in the human experience. Here's a different view: Interpol are a modern band with, already, a good collection of songs and a crisp sound very much in vogue. Antics, friends of am:X-C album of '04, is a fine summer (it was summer in the Southern hemisphere when it came out) album with boss choons galore, and uplifting anthems such as Next Exit and Not Even Jail. Leaders of the darkside? Lighten up baby. If anything's apparent tonight its Interpol's dedication to trance music. Not trance as in so much that German doof doof abberation, I'm talking about that primeval two note transmission, the trance of the delta blues. It's the notes they aren't playing that are important, the space, simple structure and constant pace you can lose yourself in. Whether or not any of these guys have ever heard of Junior Kimbrough or RL Burnside there's an indelible faultline that runs down the palm of their music, through the backwash Southern scrub, down through to Haiti and their goat slaying voodoo rituals, down through the suspension of self awareness and to who knows what basic instincts of the heart.
Interpol enter to a seriously 80's amount of dry ice and Next Exit, as correctly anticipated by Dave. Good thing we weren't betting on it. Although with its gentle tempo, full bodied organ sound and optimism its the class of song that will either open the set or not feature at all. They continue with an Antics heavy main set. They move very little on stage. It's a tactic that draws you into them. Bassist Carlos Dengler undeniably exuding the greatest pressence in what could be a warrior like pose were it not for the uber-phalic gestures he makes with his guitar neck. There's scant between-song communication, 'thank you' and 'that was song x,' is all we get. I can appreciate they're trying to foster an imperious, icy demenour, but would it hurt to indulge a fantasy of some sort of bond between us? Some sort of performer audiance relationship? I wouldn't say this is a bad audiance, in fact I'd say we're pretty ravenous, but it doesn't seem that we're inspiring the band to anything extraordinary. This sounds exactly like the record, exactly. Maybe that's what they aiming for, in which case - bravo. But some rather rigid moments, and a wooden first half of PDA isn't what I came for. If I wanted note perfect, nothing added, versions of their records I could have stayed home and listened to my CDs. That said the encore, starting with an effortlessly floating Untitled, and continuing brutally with Obstacle, the 'stabbing yourself in the neck' chorus punched out brilliantly, thrills me more. The crowd bawl out for Stela like some interactive version of A Streetcar Named Desire. The longer each song runs the more commanding they become, the feeling and noise rising up over our heads as the climax approaches.
But before all that; the Snowman cometh. Beset with problems - instruments go missing, Andy Citawarman's microphone doesn't function for the first couple of numbers, he leaps across to bassist Olga Hermaniusson's mic, but it deprives us of a much appreciated extra level of screaming - they soldier on intrepidly. From their opening demands to Shake Yr Brains they whip us with an anything goes approach. The big room reverb doesn't truthfully suit their taught, sinewy rifs, and Hermaniusson's is almost in audible. Nonetheless, they cut into their songs with all the enthusiasm and rampant energy of goons. Lusty howls break forth, a sudden bongo frenzy, jungle hooting; Wayne Coyne (Flaming Lips) described these guys as freaks onstage. Damn right. They could've decided to play it safe with a set mainly made up of their current EP but instead road test a batch of new material. Cocaince Frankenstein lumbers frenetically and a Shake Yr Brains reprise provides the would be closer. As it turns out, they have time for one more. Whoever made that descision obviously doesn't realise how short the average Snowman piece is as they squeeze four more in. They may have faced a plethora of difficulties but regardless, tonight Snowman embody so many positive charactheristics absent from the Interpol set; wit, spontenaity, versatilty (they grapple with saxophones, violins, trumpets), uncontained energy, unpredictability; I loyally go home with a new Snowman t-shirt: end of story.
As Experienced by G (funk era).
Interpol photos this way.
Afternote: having taken me a little while to write this, I have since seen an almighty performance by Doves at the same venue. Whilst everyone I know who was at both gigs whole-heartedly agreed that Doves were a hundred times better (more or less), a quick peak on the Doves website reveals that at a recent festival Doves attended, in their opinion, Interpol stole the show... go figure.
A review of Snowman from last Christams.
outpatients.