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Have you ever been beaten over the head with a bass drum? It probably feels something like being at the Interpol show last night. Though the New York post-punk act made a name for itself with precision and subtlety, the band displayed plenty of the former and too little of the latter at the Crystal Ballroom.
Though the show was part of a tour supporting El Pintor, the band's first without founding bassist Carlos Denger, it started with a classic Interpol move: The band played "Evil," its big, sing-along anthem, second. It's that kind of thing that makes Interpol endearing. The band is versed enough in setlist conventions to know its a strange decision, and they place it there for just that reason. That laissez-faire attitude even carried over to frontman Paul Banks' stage banter, which consisted solely of him introducing the members of the band and saying "Thanks" a couple times, amounting to less than 50 words.
But nothing could make up for the shoddy mix. While Interpol are known for careful composition and nuanced tone, little of that was evident here. Daniel Kessler's intricate leads were overpowered by Sam Fogarino's titanic bass drum, which, having entirely conquered the mix, rose out of the speakers to punish concertgoers like a vengeful god. Even Banks' vocals came out garbled. As meditative as the show's gentler moments were, and as locked in rhythmically as the band was for the whole set, it ultimately failed to showcase the craft of Interpol's songs.
The prevailing opinion among music fogies is that Interpol is a Joy Division knock-off. It's not an uninformed opinion, as Banks' stiff baritone does resemble that of Ian Curtis, and they've been known to employ a Peter Hook-flavored bass line now and again. The visual for one song here was even a digital mountainscape that looked suspiciously like the Unknown Pleasures cover. But, at their best, Interpol are more like another group of Joy Division devotees, with whom they've toured: U2. Both share an ability to draw catharsis out of bombastic rockers and tender moments alike, and both write horribly grandiose lyrics. It might be a worthwhile endeavor for the band to take an additional page out of the Ol' Book of U2—coming this holiday season straight to your iTunes, probably—and turn up the guitars. There's a reason that you know the Edge's name, and it's not just because it's an inane thing for a grown man to call himself.
WWeek 2015