Interpol
Turn on the Bright Lights

THE REVIEW

A soft red light breaks the darkness of a stage shrouded in thick, unhealthy smoke, upon which four clean-looking young men, dressed with elegant '30s flair, perform the miracle of rock: this was the image that Interpol presented of themselves at the beginning of the decade. Born from the dark and hidden belly of New York, this band managed to capture and embody its most poetically dark and lesser-known aspects.

"Turn on the Bright Lights," debut album released in 2002, shows us sordid yet fascinating glimpses, the source of the band's dark and rarefied tones, playing on the thread of ambiguity, never fully revealing its black heart, a hidden gem. The album features light and dark tones in seamless succession, with tracks that draw from the ominous energy of a pulsating bass, the true master of rhythm, melodious guitars painting opaque and haunting landscapes, an incessant and omniscient drum, and the lyrics of the learned singer Paul Banks, enigmatic and hermetic introspections of a visionary soul.

The record is a succession of fascinating metropolitan pearls, with a breathtaking first part where at least "Obstacle 1" must be mentioned, a track that well represents the band's taste for chiaroscuro tones, and "NYC," a piece with a broad orchestral scope that is a passionate homage to the underground New York. In the second part of the album, the sky suddenly darkens, and masterpieces like the adrenaline-filled and ambiguous "Roland" appear, and especially "The New," the album's most controversial track, which opens like a delicate autumn morning only to abruptly fade into a violent and schizoid storm of psychedelia.

"Turn on the Bright Lights" looks like the apocalypse and is perhaps the last testimony of how even in these dark times, true masterpieces can be born.