After a hard week’s work where you aim to please but fail, not because you didn’t do your best work, but because people try to squeeze water out of rocks, a well-deserved Interpol concert was in order. Too bad that the Razzmatazz still has absolutely the worst sound ever, and that all the French guys around me where drunk out of their minds and shouting every lyric wrong and out of tune. It didn’t help that Interpol themselves didn’t seem all that interested playing their songs, so I started wondering why I paid an exorbitant 40 euros to see them. Maybe it’s just that the new album’s shiny production gloss loses its sheen live when the bells and whistles get dropped in favour of sloppy playing.
All of that, that is, until the lights dim, and it’s just one guitar and one voice, and the heart shows through the voice, while the guitar’s reverb bleeds desperation across the stage for , a breathtaking knockout of a song. The guitar rips at the gut while Paul softly wails.
Sadly, no Leif Erikson or Take you on a cruise, but a surprise visit of Stella. End score – not stellar, seen better, but still, Interpol.
In any case, I already knew tonight would not hold up at all to Monday’s The National in Brussel. Guess I am not too old yet to have a new favourite band.