Singer Paul Banks has described "Fables," an early single off Interpol's seventh studio album, as having [guitarist Daniel Kessler's] "hottest licks, a breezy vocal with optimistic lyrics and a bouncy drum beat evocative of classic R&B with a nod to the golden age of hip-hop. It's a summer jam..." He might be the only person in the world to take that away from this gothic sounding and feeling ("You're truly erupting too hard/ That's why you're a sizeable God/ And I am decidedly cold") track; if anything, it's the soundtrack of summer at Wuthering Heights. But it does have a great singalong chorus, and besides—you don't come to Interpol for R&B summer jams. You're here for tracks like the dark-hearted "Something Changed," with its haunting piano, lounge-jazz drum and a delightfully odd vibe that suggests if The National covered Interpol. Or moody "Toni," with its skittering drum beat and vocals that, according to Banks, producer Flood compared to "Mickey Rourke in Barfly, singing to a patron at the end of the tabletop." The Other Side of Make-Believe is co-produced by Flood and his longtime collaborator Alan Moulder, and there are touches of the duo's grand, open sound that made albums by U2 and The Killers sound so big. "Mr. Credit" has true swagger, with Sam Fogarino's drums going from splashy bursts to full-on crashing waves, and Banks coming on more like Bowie than usual. "Renegade Hearts" is, for Interpol, a muscular hard-charger with a low-end growl and glints of sunshine; more than anything, it recalls Boy-era U2. Kessler's guitar line on "Into the Night" is like a snake working its way into your brain, while "Big Shot City" has hot spots of ska-inspired guitar. So does the glorious "Gran Hotel," which starts off shadowy and low before kicking in majorly, Banks' vocals bursting out of nowhere and keeping the energy high. And "Passenger" is pretty great, all piercing guitar and drums throbbing like the adrenaline that's triggered by true love and fear alike. "I need something to hold/ Someone to grasp at/ When I fall into a hole/ With a mountain on my back," Bank sings, weary of the everyday drama. It's emotional, moving and entirely Interpol.  © Shelly Ridenour/Qobuz

Though Our Love to Admire is technically Interpol's first major-label album, the way the band attempted to streamline the gorgeously dark atmospherics of Turn on the Bright Lights into something more marketable on Antics made that album feel more like their big-time debut than this album does. On Our Love to Admire, Interpol spends roughly half their time following Antics' game plan of distilling their sound into readily accessible hooks, and the other half stretching their sound with deluxe arrangements and filigrees like strings, brass, and keyboards (all of which are used to grandiose effect on "Wrecking Ball"). Our Love to Admire's poppy tracks have been polished into black patent leather brilliance: "No I in Threesome"'s jaunty, insistent rhythms and "The Heinrich Maneuver"'s relatively bright, bouncy attack show that Interpol has gotten better, or at least more accomplished, at transforming their sound into singles since Antics. More heartening news for Turn on the Bright Lights fans arrives on Our Love to Admire's ambitious tracks, some of which come close to touching the greatness of Interpol's debut. "Pioneer to the Falls" uses the album's expansive production to the hilt, beginning with elegantly treacherous guitars, strings, and pianos; Daniel Kessler's soaring guitar solo and Paul Banks' repeated entreaties of "you fly straight into my heart" feel like the musical equivalent of storm clouds clearing. The song is filmic and full of ideas, and updates the spirit behind Turn on the Bright Lights without rehashing its sound slavishly. "Mammoth" is another standout, a tense yet hypnotic rocker that builds into a graceful fury around the refrain "spare me the suspense" and the band's relentless rhythm section. However, two of the prettiest songs vie for the title of the album's strongest track: "Rest My Chemistry" is Our Love to Admire's languid, luminous centerpiece (and the song that most clearly recalls Turn on the Bright Lights' magic), while the album's spare, vulnerable finale, "The Lighthouse," boasts some of Banks' most natural, affecting vocals yet. When Our Love to Admire falters -- and it falters a fair amount of the time -- it's because Interpol's attention to atmosphere and detail outpaces the songwriting. At this point the band is so professional that songs like "The Scale," "Who Do You Think?," and "Pace Is the Trick" can sound good in the moment, but fail to leave a lasting impression. With nearly as many awkward moments as inspired ones, Our Love to Admire is a somewhat schizophrenic listening experience. It feels like half of an album by a band making sure their songs that fit the mold of what they've done before, and half of an album by a band using their major-label leverage to push their boundaries. Who knows which version of the band will prevail, but there are just enough interesting songs on Our Love to Admire to suggest that they can't be written off entirely just yet. © Heather Phares /TiVo

More than fifteen years after Turn On the Bright Lights, the stroke of genius of the year 2002 and masterpiece of the postpunk revival, the quartet Interpol has become a trio, and is back with Marauder. Since Antics, the New Yorkers had shelled out two average albums Our Love to Admire and Interpol, and the lovely El Pintor, without Carlos D., going back to their first loves. Long, hollow at times, this latest effort could well be cut in half and still be as good. Despite with a forgettable pop first half (Mountain Child, Stay in Touch, Flight of Fancy), it features the distinctive “Interpol sound” (The Rover) and ends with the expressive It Probably Matters and Party’s Over. Two breathes in the opus, Interludes 1 and 2 pay homage to Turn On the Bright Lights and its strange Obstacles 1 and 2. There’s even something for the fans, as Banks reveals an autobiographical aspect: “I feel like now, I'm able to romanticize parts of my own life.” Once again, Interpol took care of the production. Following in the footsteps of Our Love to Admire and Interpol with Alan Moulder, the band worked with Dave Fridmann, a former collaborator of Flaming Lips and Mercury Rev, and experienced producer. While it is now clear Interpol can exist without Carlos D., it remains to be seen whether they can diversify their formula.

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A lot about Interpol suggests that it's a statement of purpose, from its eponymous title to the fact that it was released by Matador, where the band released its best material. There is a certain back-to-basics feel about the album: producer Alan Moulder strips away much of Our Love to Admire's lavish sheen and gives the band a more muscular attack by pushing the rhythm section to the fore -- especially fitting since bassist Carlos Dengler left the band shortly after finishing Interpol -- and the album clocks in at a relatively concise 10 songs in 45 minutes. However, like many things about this band, it's not quite that simple. Interpol spends the first half of the album shoring up their strengths, particularly well on "Barricade." With its killer opening line "I did not take to analysis/So I had to make up my mind" and taut interplay between Dengler's bass and Daniel Kessler's guitar, it feels like it could have appeared on Turn on the Bright Lights; even the name harks back to "Obstacle 1," though this feels more like a response to that song than a rehash of it. Despite the direct sonics, many of these songs take some time to understand; even the single "Lights" is more insistent than catchy, with a drilling riff that builds into a dark meditation on love and control. Interpol's second half is especially intriguing, giving Our Love to Admire's ambition a tighter focus. "Always Malaise (The Man I Am)" is thrilling, reaffirming Interpol's status as masters of ambivalent love songs as it switches between major and minor keys as quickly as a tempestuous relationship goes from sweet to sour and back again. The band gets even bolder on the album's closing trilogy, as well they should -- by this point, Banks, Dengler and drummer Sam Fogarino had all embarked on projects that showed they had more range than they were displaying in their main band. Indeed, the looping keyboards and precise beats of "Try it On" recalls Banks' work as Julian Plenti, and by the time trilogy culminates with the surprisingly spiritual "The Undoing," the band sounds fresher than they have in some time. © Heather Phares /TiVo

Okay, so it's simple to follow it this far: Fantômas was a trilogy of films in the '60s that seemed like it came out of pulp novels but actually took its name as a dis on the surrealists -- only in France. In Fantômas an evil, weirdly made-up master/criminal is pursued by a good guy and his woman assistant, who are trying to foil his plans, all over Europe. There are plenty of high-speed chases, action shots of fights, and dangerous capture scenarios, but all with tongue firmly in cheek, apparently. That's good, really, because the music that accompanied these films by Michael Magne is some of the worst I've ever heard. Admittedly the French have a particular sense of drama and the absurd, but this is hilariously bad by any standard. Jacques Brel would have puked on these scores and Serge Gainsbourg would have rolled a cigarette with them. Picture a completely sentimental Raymond Scott without the imagination bred with a kid who's seen too many monster movies handcuffed to a young teenager in the throes of his first deluded love, and you about have it. Where this music accompanies action scenes is beyond me because it's almost all syrup. Yech.© Thom Jurek /TiVo