Through the years a mighty multitude of bands and tastes have ascended or faded amid the stars of my musical cosmology . Few groups withstand the withering hormonal blasts of adolescence, and still fewer remain after the tempests of youth are past and the ear begins to mellow. Yet the wily, enigmatic rockers of Interpol have long since proven their lasting appeal to the passionate little djinn who so daintily dances on my eardrums and dictates my aural delights. The New York-based outfit's previous two outings, "Turn on the Bright Lights" and "Antics," have continually recycled through my otherwise Darwinian playlists with laudable tenacity for years, making it thus possible for me to claim, without reserve, that I dig 'em.
Which is why my initial attempts to swallow their recent third release, "Our Love to Admire," proved so bilious. I chewed my figurative fingernails to metaphorical stumps waiting for this long-awaited Disc of Holiness to come out (on the day of its unleashing, after a twelve-hour shoot and a two-hour commute, I burst into Target armed with gift card and drool cup, knowing that the Red Bullseye's savvy moguls could not fail to see the fiscal benefits of offering Interpol's newest opus on its prophesied Day of Arrival. They did not have it, and I swore aloud to pillage their women, raze their crops, and sew their fields with salt, after which I bought it across the street at Rasputin). But something about this newest album proved to be off: it took me several attempts to even struggle through the entire affair.
Having finally done so, I can sigh with relief that the album is no dud, but my relief comes at a price.
The trouble with "Our Love" is its inconsistency; it's a CD in three unofficial acts. The album's first act is strong, but unremarkable: "Pioneer to the Falls," "No I in Threesome," and "The Scale" are all solid tracks, but break little new ground for the band--worse, there's something disturbingly narcissistic at work throughout, as though singer/writer Paul Banks were mumbling each "you" into a mirror. "No I in Threesome" in particular seems like a bad joke; as Pitchfork magazine's Ryan Dombal points out, its either an incredibly subtle dig at loose sexuality, or the most embarrassingly sincere disregard for fidelity ever expressed in song--unfortunately, it comes off more as the latter.
The album's second act amps back up with the single "The Heinrich Maneuver," which sounds suspiciously like a band imitating Interpol. "Mammoth" is a bore, and "All Fired Up" has nothing to say. "Pace is the Trick" is the middle's most likeable contribution, but there's no hiding its blatant sexual overtones--a great deal of Interpol's irresistible sensuality was owed to vague hints at sexuality, but "Our Love" bludgeons the audience without submitting any insightful commentary on the subject.
Luckily, the climactic third act steps up to rescue an outing seemingly doomed to mediocrity. "Rest My Chemistry," while unsubtle, cranks in with assurance and panache; my heart began to palpitate the moment the song began. And from there, it's smooth sailing. The next three tracks are Interpol at their finest, introducing broader instrumentation that expands the band's sonic landscape, wrapping up with "The Lighthouse," which gave back to me every reason I listen to Interpol in the first place.
Tough love with this one, but in the end, you'll admire.
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