Pitchfork

As you read this, there are likely a number of people in your midst summoning up all the backlash powers their mortal frames can bear, those who believe the boys from Interpol to be the latest shock troops in the battle of PR style over artistic substance. And who can blame them? After the veritable shitstorm of publicity drummed up by a certain New York City band-- one that had the audacity to not be the denim-clad messiahs of rock and roll we'd been promised-- directing a little skepticism toward NYC's buzzmongers is probably healthy. Plus, at a glance, Interpol's snazzy suits and expensive haircuts seem symptomatic of a carefully spun image designed purely to separate money from wallets. It's okay to be suspicious.

But back up. These guys are on Matador, not RCA. The hypester division of Matador is a guy in a closet (and he's only part-time); the 'spin' budget for Interpol wouldn't even be a down-payment on Julian Casablancas' designer leather jacket. The fact that these guys see press at all can only be attributed to their die-hard contingent of fans (I'm only recently converted), and was earned purely through legwork and a handful of underpublicised EPs. And now that they've won our attention, after three years of toiling in obscurity, it's mere icing that their debut full-length delivers upon what the whispers only hinted at.

Interpol's debut full-length is wrought with emotional disconnection and faded glory, epic sweep and intimate catharsis. Inevitably, the hype exceeds return (that's why it's hype-- and, to be fair, Interpol has largely flown under the radar compared to most other NYC acts), but there's no getting around that Turn On the Bright Lights is an incredibly powerful and affecting album. Loss, regret, and a minor key brilliantly permeate jangling guitars and rhythmic and tonal shifts-- and although it's no Closer or OK Computer, it's not unthinkable that this band might aspire to such heights.

Speaking of Closer, Interpol can't seem to shake being likened to Factory prodigies Joy Division. The cause, however, isn't necessarily evident. Indeed, Daniel Kessler's sublime, angular downstrokes follow the smooth confidence of Carlos Dengler's basslines, and Paul Banks sings with Ian Curtis' downcast delivery and dramatic flair. The difference, however, lies in the music itself: what Joy Division played was sparse and jagged-- punk with a melancholy, but often minimalist bent. Interpol, meanwhile, are punk in ethic alone; their music bears few of that genre's signatures, with the band instead immersing themselves in a grander, more theatrical atmosphere with lush production that counters their frustrated bombast.

"I will surprise you sometimes/ I'll come around/ When you're down," Banks gently affirms over echo-drenched guitar simplicity and rolling bass, as "Untitled" hovers on artificial strings to open Bright Lights. The words are plaintive yet assertive, in agreement with the unsteady warble of the background, and they set the tone for an album that is equally paradoxical-- often bleak, but surprisingly uplifting. Each of the album's eleven tracks evoke raw, unsettling need suffused with delicate serenity. It can be difficult to absorb this much emotional relentlessness, as Banks unflinchingly confronts you with it at all times, but it's precisely this challenge that makes this record so staggering.

The visceral punch of the thematic content is backed at every turn by melody among serrated riffs and amorphous percussion. Discussing the highs and lows of Bright Lights would just be splitting hairs, given its consistency, but a few tracks stand inches above the others. Of the two songs to be carried over from their self-titled EP, "NYC"'s conflicted show of conditional love for the streets of Interpol's hometown is still one of the most brilliant cuts present. And as tight as the EP was, Interpol show how much more they're capable of with "Obstacle 1" and "The New," the range between which is striking. "Obstacle 1" is as close to Joy Division as Interpol gets, coupling harsh, restrained outbursts of aggression with disturbing imagery as Banks clearly gasps, "You'll go stabbing yourself in the neck." The tense lead guitar is a counterpoint, giving these explosive bursts added depth, just as Ian Curtis' emotional collapses were made more poignant by the fragile guitar that cradled them. By the time the album reaches "The New," the anger has dissipated, leaving only the calm sound of sober acceptance.

The tragedy of music press is that when the buzz spirals out of control, people are apt to question a great band's validity, whereas if the band went largely unknown and was 'discovered' independently, so to speak, folks would be less likely to reject the praise out of hand. Whether that will happen with Interpol remains to be seen, but as a member of the press, it's my duty to tell you, from one music fan to another, what I personally think of an album, and in this case, it's that Turn On the Bright Lights has been one of the most strikingly passionate records I've heard this year. That other people I've spoken with have the opportunity to experience it, and that they feel similarly about it, can only be a good thing.