11:25pm
Four well-dressed men gather in a spare but spacious Manhattan loft. A makeshift table stands alone in the center of the room casting long shadows to windows and walls. Someone lights a cigarette. At the table one of the four spreads a large, densely diagrammed schematic – a map - anchoring its corners with tiny sandbags made just for this purpose. Another lays out an array of official looking documents and points to a spot on the map. Everyone nods, then looks to the third man. Standing two steps behind the rest, he flicks a pair of tarnished brass keys onto the table and grins, sliding his hand back into a convenient jacket pocket before most would notice it had ever left. The fourth man checks his watch, raises an eyebrow, and looks to the door. Each man carefully gathers what he brought and files out of the loft. "White Light / White Heat” plays in the background.
Cities must dig down to build up. The higher you build the deeper you have to dig. The island of Manhattan floats above a matrix of subterranean tunnels, ducts, and pipelines equally as grand and complex as New York City itself. These buried chasms serve the city’s mechanical functions, porting subway cars and sewage the length and breadth of the island and beyond. Many ceased to function years ago. Stories are full of the city’s abandoned tunnels intersecting in man-made caves once home to the colossal guts of grand industries, now refuge to the giant alligators of our minds. But maybe the dark and winding voids below Broadway, real or otherwise, serve another purpose. They remind us that without one there could not be the other. The riddled crust over which Manhattan hefts its weight also points to the fragile balance we ourselves seek out; a way to keep the mundane necessities of life from dulling our wildest dreams and a way to keep the pursuit of those dreams from crippling our ability to get by. We are our own guardians of this equilibrium and must work to maintain it.
12:33am
Four well-dressed men exit the #4 train onto the Fulton Street platform and wait for the other passengers to depart. They walk north toward the stairway then stop before an unmarked door. The last man scans the platform while the first two check the stairs. The third man collects the keys from his pocket and slips one into the lock. It clicks, catches, turns. Each of the men retrieves a small pen light from his jacket, ignites it, and steps into the dark hallway on the other side of the door. A new train rumbles onto the platform just as the door locks behind them.
Occasionally, tragically, something happens to tip the scales. Our greatest city lost its anchor. Suddenly the gaping depths beneath our surface were exposed and tested like never before. The light of selfless compassion burned through the dust and became a bright beacon of Man at his Best for the whole world to see. Too quickly that light was put to work shining into dim corners for someone to blame, and eventually it was used to spark wars.
Just as the whole of New York City wasn’t built over night or toppled in one morning, it cannot be restored in such a short time, body or soul. Flag draped fences and a monument many people won’t ever want offer little healing to hearts so deeply damaged. It’s going to take lots of people working at the little things, things made large by the importance of their simply being done. It’s going to take time.
2:05am
Four well-dressed men make a left turn eighteen stories below the street. Now traveling west, their pace remains steady as the corridor widens and begins its steady decline. The plunk of dripping water replaces the muffled din of trains with every step. One man checks his watch, pauses and raises a hand. They stop and gather to re-examine the map. Four narrow beams of light converge on a mark near the map’s lower edge, then on the wall in front of them. “40N42.” They converge on the wall below the mark and begin brushing away layers of crust until another door is revealed. The third man, key already in hand, finds the lock.
They exhale simultaneously and the door groans open into an impossibly vast cavern of cement and steel. Each man casts his light about the arena-sized vault in search of its invisible edge. One man steps forward, following his light to a pile of wooden crates stacked neatly in the center of the hall. The others follow suit and soon they are at work unpacking the equipment within.
A surface so polished by the tireless work of so many often needs something to hold it fast against their labor. Once that anchor was our infallibility, our perfect sheen, our grand vertical achievements. Now it must be the work itself. One man helping another helping another to keep them all upright and moving until the sum of their work, however small, is greater than the thing that was lost. We understood this without realizing it the moment we were needed to give blood, donate food or money, lend a hand. Some people remember. Others forget.
4:40am
Four well-dressed men finish arranging the contents of the last crate. One man lifts the empty box out of the way revealing a large electrical outlet in the floor. Another man walks to it, trailing a thick black cord from one hand. He kneels and pushes the cord’s male end into the receptacle. Tiny lights flick on all around them. A warm hum emanates from the equipment and rolls across the floor. A familiar voice crackles toward them from the dark: “Okay guys, we’re set to roll anytime you’re ready.” A pause. “Good then. Antics: take one.” A sober organ, then one man’s voice: “We ain't going to the town; We're going to the city; Gonna track this shit around; And make this place a heart; To be a part of; Again…” Each man in his place gathers his strength and plays his part, raising the earth above him back to where it used to be.
Interpol seem to understand the importance of a good work ethic, of doing the little things that need to be done without looking for a quick fix or pat on the back. The opening lines of “Antics” (above) are more than urban chauvinism. They are a stirring, workmanlike declaration dressed for the office, laying solid foundations on which to build and build.
There was a lot of speculation about how the band would follow their debut “Turn on the Bright Lights” without falling from grace. Most stories I’ve seen focus on (1) the album’s dark, dark tone, (2) inane lyrics, and (3) a lack of creative growth, even though it’s still very good. This is a departure from the three things people usually address when talking about Interpol: (1) the suits, (2) the hair, and (3) NYC. Obviously I couldn’t get around this last one either.
But while the suits and hair distracted surface feeders Interpol went about the business of succeeding their inaugural benchmark as if all else were vapor. Rather than seeking to reinvent or over-reach themselves artistically they stayed close to home, pressing out moody rock rich with echoing guitars and full-bodied vocals deadpanned to a darkly meaningful perfection. Where their debut came on strong and pressed its luck to win big, “Antics” is a slow burn, less immediate but more confident and fulfilling. The sense of urgency (!) has been replaced by a greater sense of thesis (:) - as if to say ‘now that we have your attention please have a seat, there is something you should hear.’
Not a lot has changed in the writing or sound. The attention garnered by the lyrics this time out likely comes from the prominent role vocal performance is given. While the songs themselves, dynamically tilting from frenzy to swoon, remain the band’s greatest strength, Paul Bank’s vocals are placed front and center – a fulcrum on which a song’s content and form balance. That said, the lyrics to many verses seem to have been written out of obligation in order to get to the good stuff - a simple, moving chorus. This is not so different or worse than their debut who’s turn of phrase rated only slightly above average with the exception of the song title “Stella was a diver and she was always down” and perhaps the chorus of “PDA.” Here, “Slow Hands” delivers the most immediate pay off, building to a driving, enigmatic refrain hard to let go of even after the song has stopped.
There is an air of the criminal in titles like “Evil,” “Narc,” Not Even Jail,” and “Public Pervert.” Music and lyrics are doused in confession, conjuring glimpses of moral compromise and hidden desire. This is the smart darkness you hear on the album, not the murky black of too-heavy playing or outright sin. Interpol are gentlemen, after all. But all is not night. Optimism and determination percolate up through the layers in bright, consistently good and occasionally inventive play. By the album’s end a positive sense of progress has accumulated in the spaces between sharp wit and real emotion, subtle pauses and crashing rants.
“Antics” also cements as rule rather than exception the hollow-hall sound cropping up on albums by The Yeah Yeah Yeahs and The Arcade Fire (review) which sound as if they were recorded in dark, vacant auditoriums large enough to seat a few thousand friends. Reminiscent of early, reverb-heavy tracks by Neil Young or The Stooges, or more recently of the echoing lo-fi, bedroom-turned-studio scene, I first remember hearing this updated take on the sound resurface on REM’s “New Adventures in Hi-Fi” which was largely recorded on tour during sound checks... in empty arenas large enough to seat a few thousand friends. It’s a remarkable and effective technique. By situating the sound in a place large enough for the masses and then emptying it of everyone but you the value of each song is heightened and a closer connection with the music can be established. The sound becomes naturally expansive yet personal, grand in scale while intimate in tone. Interpol are able to bottle the electric arc of these moments without embellishment, building on their already formidable strengths and leading by example - as if to say "rock like we do."
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