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Rating:
Interpol are the scapegoats of the third millennium! But how the hell did they squander the legacy of such an important bequest as "Turn on the Bright Lights," destined to change the face of the last ten years of rock music?
It was 2002, and the New York band debuted with an album that would prove essential to recent history: soon after, people began to talk about post-punk revival as a genre, and disciples who would compete to take up the torch from what was the forerunner of a new movement emerged everywhere. Then nothing: a reputation slowly ruined due to an embarrassing series of poorly executed albums, while in the meantime, various Editors, White Lies, National gained positions in the music market, certainly with a bit of cunning and craftiness, but also with tactical intelligence and real inspiration.
But not only that: while the aforementioned bands fill arenas and draw applause and hysterical screams from oceanic crowds, in the shadows of small suburban clubs, very young formations grow and establish themselves, reclaiming the less catchy and listenable elements of that post-punk brought back in vogue by the now-useless Interpol, to restore the original spirit of a musical season devoted to the expression of feelings of discomfort and malaise. Complicit, of course, is our current historical period, which is not exactly reassuring and promising.
From the (musically speaking) glorious Detroit, which knows a thing or two about (de)industrialized landscapes and degraded suburbs, come the now leaders of the local scene, Protomartyr, arriving at their second album after the almost explosive debut that was "No Passion All Technique" a couple of years ago. Unlike some of their colleagues, Joe, Greg, Scott, and Alex prefer to draw lessons from post-punk acts such as Wire, The Fall, Gang of Four, Birthday Party, and (why not?) the very earliest Bad Seeds, perhaps because Joe Casey's deliberately off-key and lazy voice reminds one at times of a young and utterly high Nick Cave. A nervous and varied sound from the Michigan quartet avoids more linear solutions, shaping a sonic material made of voids and solids, a modus operandi that does not shirk impetuous electric outbursts or more exquisitely melodic moments, a stylistic path that peacefully coexists with uncompromising punk shards and preparatory phases of rhythmic deconstructions, booming bass, and guitar effects.
Let’s be clear: the snarling dog on the cover, from an iconographic point of view, and the pure statistical fact of fourteen songs for just thirty-four minutes eloquently expose the urgency of a sound that does not indulge in the sophisticated. Yet "Under Color of Official Right" doesn’t leave you with sore ears and the impression that four rascals just vented their anger. The opener "Maidenhead," for example, is almost a ballad (central explosion permitting) and is Interpol in its purest form. And if the subsequent "Aint so Simple" immediately clarifies things by showing teeth and a greater execution speed, it’s from the fifth track onward that the album really begins to gear up. Exemplary is the quartet made up of “Pagans” (just over a minute of punk elevated to a generational anthem) - “What the Wall Said” (captivating with its almost "ramonesque" emotive finale) - “Tarpeian Rock” (with a nice groove that makes it almost danceable) - “Bad Advice” (the first example of a more obsessive and paranoid sound, rich with abrupt counterpoints, guitar delay, and a more theatrical and declamatory vocal performance: all elements that will find more growing space in the second half of the platter).
…a second handful of tracks shines with decidedly successful episodes such as “Scum, Rise!” (where Casey becomes dangerously similar to Cave, so much so that it ends up evoking none other than the liveliest Grinderman), “I Stare at Floors” (noise and tribal at times, epic and melodic at others) and “Come & See” (whose opening wouldn’t look out of place on an Arcade Fire album!). The songs flow beautifully, aided by a warm and powerful production, short duration, and that immediacy/freshness that compensates for a technical preparation quite lacking even for the standards of the genre (the rhythm section, in particular, could use some scolding, at times a bit exhausted).
The American response to the angry and nihilistic Europe worthily represented by acts like Iceage and Eagulls, Protomartyr, like the just-mentioned bands, might be yet another meteor of these insubstantial times (a "four stars" of today will soon convert to a "three stars" of tomorrow, I am sure), but precisely because the historical phase we are living in is frantic, leaving little room for meditation and artistic development of new blood, it is worth capturing the efforts of these jaunty youths in what is probably their moment of greatest splendor.
It was 2002, and the New York band debuted with an album that would prove essential to recent history: soon after, people began to talk about post-punk revival as a genre, and disciples who would compete to take up the torch from what was the forerunner of a new movement emerged everywhere. Then nothing: a reputation slowly ruined due to an embarrassing series of poorly executed albums, while in the meantime, various Editors, White Lies, National gained positions in the music market, certainly with a bit of cunning and craftiness, but also with tactical intelligence and real inspiration.
But not only that: while the aforementioned bands fill arenas and draw applause and hysterical screams from oceanic crowds, in the shadows of small suburban clubs, very young formations grow and establish themselves, reclaiming the less catchy and listenable elements of that post-punk brought back in vogue by the now-useless Interpol, to restore the original spirit of a musical season devoted to the expression of feelings of discomfort and malaise. Complicit, of course, is our current historical period, which is not exactly reassuring and promising.
From the (musically speaking) glorious Detroit, which knows a thing or two about (de)industrialized landscapes and degraded suburbs, come the now leaders of the local scene, Protomartyr, arriving at their second album after the almost explosive debut that was "No Passion All Technique" a couple of years ago. Unlike some of their colleagues, Joe, Greg, Scott, and Alex prefer to draw lessons from post-punk acts such as Wire, The Fall, Gang of Four, Birthday Party, and (why not?) the very earliest Bad Seeds, perhaps because Joe Casey's deliberately off-key and lazy voice reminds one at times of a young and utterly high Nick Cave. A nervous and varied sound from the Michigan quartet avoids more linear solutions, shaping a sonic material made of voids and solids, a modus operandi that does not shirk impetuous electric outbursts or more exquisitely melodic moments, a stylistic path that peacefully coexists with uncompromising punk shards and preparatory phases of rhythmic deconstructions, booming bass, and guitar effects.
Let’s be clear: the snarling dog on the cover, from an iconographic point of view, and the pure statistical fact of fourteen songs for just thirty-four minutes eloquently expose the urgency of a sound that does not indulge in the sophisticated. Yet "Under Color of Official Right" doesn’t leave you with sore ears and the impression that four rascals just vented their anger. The opener "Maidenhead," for example, is almost a ballad (central explosion permitting) and is Interpol in its purest form. And if the subsequent "Aint so Simple" immediately clarifies things by showing teeth and a greater execution speed, it’s from the fifth track onward that the album really begins to gear up. Exemplary is the quartet made up of “Pagans” (just over a minute of punk elevated to a generational anthem) - “What the Wall Said” (captivating with its almost "ramonesque" emotive finale) - “Tarpeian Rock” (with a nice groove that makes it almost danceable) - “Bad Advice” (the first example of a more obsessive and paranoid sound, rich with abrupt counterpoints, guitar delay, and a more theatrical and declamatory vocal performance: all elements that will find more growing space in the second half of the platter).
…a second handful of tracks shines with decidedly successful episodes such as “Scum, Rise!” (where Casey becomes dangerously similar to Cave, so much so that it ends up evoking none other than the liveliest Grinderman), “I Stare at Floors” (noise and tribal at times, epic and melodic at others) and “Come & See” (whose opening wouldn’t look out of place on an Arcade Fire album!). The songs flow beautifully, aided by a warm and powerful production, short duration, and that immediacy/freshness that compensates for a technical preparation quite lacking even for the standards of the genre (the rhythm section, in particular, could use some scolding, at times a bit exhausted).
The American response to the angry and nihilistic Europe worthily represented by acts like Iceage and Eagulls, Protomartyr, like the just-mentioned bands, might be yet another meteor of these insubstantial times (a "four stars" of today will soon convert to a "three stars" of tomorrow, I am sure), but precisely because the historical phase we are living in is frantic, leaving little room for meditation and artistic development of new blood, it is worth capturing the efforts of these jaunty youths in what is probably their moment of greatest splendor.
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