Andy Kellman, All Music Guide

One might go into a review like this one wondering how many words will pass before Joy Division is brought up. In this case, the answer is 16. Many are too quick to classify Interpol as mimics and lose out on discovering that little more than an allusion is being made. The music made by both bands explores the vast space between black and white and produces something pained, deftly penetrating, and beautiful. Save for a couple vocal tics, that's where the obvious parallels end. The other fleeting comparisons one can one whip up when talking about Interpol are several — roughly the same amount that can be conjured when talking about any other guitar/drums/vocals band formed since the '90s. So, sure enough, one could play the similarity game with this record all day and bring up a pile of bands. It could be a detrimental thing to do, especially when this record is so spellbinding and doesn't deserve to be mottled with such bilge. However, this record is a special case; slaying the albatross this band has been unfairly strangled by is urgent and key. Let's: There's another Manchester band at the heart of "Say Hello to the Angels," but that heart is bookended by a beginning and end that approaches the agitated squall of Fugazi; the torchy, elegiac "Leif Erikson" plays out like a missing scene from the Afghan Whigs' Gentlemen; the upper-register refrain near the close of "Obstacle 1" channels Shudder to Think. This record is no fun at all, the tension is rarely resolved, and — oh no! — it isn't exactly revolutionary, though some new shades of gray have been discovered. But you shouldn't allow your perception to be fogged by such considerations when someone has just done it for you and, most importantly, when all this brilliance is waiting to overwhelm you.

 Dominic Wills, Amazon.com

The early 80s sub-gothic, post-punk are clearly Interpol's obsession on Turn On the Bright Lights. Though stylishly clad in suits and ties and unmistakably a New York band, their music is a literate, atmospheric, always-moody, sometimes-trashy post-punk often recalling the Psychedelic Furs, particularly with "PDA", "Obstacle 2", "Roland" and "Stella Was a Diver and She Was Always Down". And this is definitely a good thing. While most young bands are still rhyming "make it" with "fake it", it's truly refreshing to hear Interpol's melodramatic tales of tortured and tortuous urban relationships. Like their peers the Strokes, they're a bright band, sophisticated and meticulous enough to build genuinely stirring soundscapes. Turn On the Bright Lights is an absolute must for anyone who missed Echo & The Bunnymen, the Furs or Joy Division the first time round.

David Sprague, Barnes & Noble

There's been a lot of noise in recent days about bands that are trying to revive punk's original spirit, so it's not altogether surprising that some contrarians would inch a bit forward in time -- like this New York quartet, who seem hellbent on recreating the dark, doomy tenor of the post-punk wave that brought ashore bands like Joy Division and Gang of Four back in '79 or so. While sometimes slavishly imitative -- singer Paul Banks does a frighteningly precise channel of the late Ian Curtis on songs such as "Stella Was a Diver and She Was Always Down" -- Interpol are no one-trick pony. On "Obstacle One," the combination of brittle guitar scratch and repeating rhythm patterns coalesce into a drone that's both alluring and hypnotic; the more fleshed-out "Obstacle Two" adds a few more layers of guitar, but the overall feel is no less eerily claustrophobic. "Say Hello to the Angels," on the other hand, lurches along with more abandon, imparting a drunken vibe that wouldn't be out of place on a Strokes album. Surprisingly morose as it may be for an album bearing such a title, Turn on the Bright Lights gives darkened tunnels -- and musical tunnel vision -- a good name.

The stunning debut album that incorporates so many postpunk influences: Joy Division, Television, Morrissey.

Kieran Grant, JAM! Music / Toronto Sun, August 24 2002

Latest U.S. it-band Interpol may yet be crushed by the weight of their own good press. I mean, just how many gratuitous if well-meaning Joy Division comparisons can one band withstand before its creativity is totally undermined?

Actually, there's a lot more to this New York City quartet than good taste in records and a debt to Ian Curtis et al. The followup to this year's thrilling Interpol EP, Turn On The Bright Lights is a lush and romantic statement amid the American underground's current garage-rock crop.

The group are not only adept at swooning gloom-pop (Untitled, NYC) and urgently pretty punk-funk (Obstacle 1, Say Hello To The Angels) -- they frequently do both at once (PDA, Hands Away, Roland, The New). Even at their most precious (Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down), the band prevail on sheer strength of melody.

And, given Interpol's undeniably European tone, there's an added mystique in their being from New York and the seldom-seen side of the city they capture -- all gleaming drones and wintry dark. We like.

Victoria Segal, New Musical Express

When it comes to comebacks, only Elvis can match The Dark. If 2001 saw American bands tapping local heritage from Detroit to NYC, this year a grey-skinned British past is being dragged back the light. Dark angel Anglophiles Black Rebel Motorcycle Club have already made the journey and now come the half-British, New York-based Interpol to draw the curtains, dim the lights and tear into the bunker-reserves of paranoia, lust and fear that fuel this intriguing debut.

Forget the New York state of mind: Interpol have crossed county lines into new, distinctly Mancunian territory. The electroclash '80s have no place here - except maybe as a party heard through a thin and depressing partition wall. The already inevitable Joy Division comparisons are obvious and unmistakable, airbourne in the ashen atmospherics, Paul Bank's earth-to-earth voice and guitars so chokingly dense they should have a clean air order slapped on them. Yet The Smiths also lurk in the rugged rhythms and the clinical vocal deadpan. "This is the only version of my desertion that I will ever subscribe to" yelps Banks on the cryptic tickertape spool of 'PDA', which is Morrissey-rhyming of an almost comical order - while 'Say Hello To The Angels' takes a punctured bicycle on a hillside desolate and customises it into a streamlined motoring machine.

Admittedly, there are times when all the bomb-age portent makes you feel like wearing a 'nuclear power - nein danke' badge but they make it okay even when - as on 'Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down' - the gloom threatens to become gauche. It could be as warm and emotionally satisfying as a hug from a piece of industrial cutting machinery but Interpol temper this album with real atmospheric sadness: the guitar sunspots that flare through 'Untitled'; the echo and ache of 'Leif Erikson'; the way the magnificent 'NYC' brings on the dancing horses for a slow sad waltz through the city's sickness; the snap-shut metal box clang of 'Obstacle 1'.

Through all those years of bad irony and blank angst, The Dark's vital signs have kept strong. With 'Turn On The Bright Lights', Interpol interpret them perfectly for these new and exciting times.

John Everhart, Nude As The News

New York City’s Interpol are a throwback to the times when bands weren’t on magazine covers after their fifth gig, back when the hyperbolic English hype machine didn’t go ballistic over a band who had released a grand total of three songs. Interpol is a band in the purest aesthetic sense, four independent parts gelling together as a unit, in the vein of early R.E.M. or Television or Sleater-Kinney. Not to compare them to these bands sonically, but at a level of principles and spirit, there’s a strong resemblance. Their debut album, Turn On The Bright Lights, is an exhilarating ride through dank subway cars, couches to crash on, despair, and isolation.

Exhilaration is perhaps the most appropriate emotion you could ascribe to this record. You find it in frontman Paul Banks’ impassioned vocals, tempered by a sense of quixotic ennui; and in the twin guitar assault from Banks and Dan Kessler, playing off each other so intuitively, as they alternately jangle and rock; and in the rhythm section, the way Carlos D.’s melodic bass lines so effectively lock in with Samuel’s propulsive drumming. While Interpol has some fairly obvious antecedents (The Wedding Present, Joy Division), they play with such raw conviction that you can’t help but to be captivated.

The songs veer from Smiths-style balladry ("NYC") to dissonant rave-ups ("PDA"). "PDA" bowls you over with a jagged guitar assault and the insistently catchy refrain of, "sleep tight, tonight, we’ve got 200 couches where you can sleep tonight," while "NYC" is a pining ode to isolation, as Banks laments of "Spending all these lonely nights, training myself not to care." Things really get going with the incendiary "Obstacle 1," a seething rocker, as Banks wails desperately of how, "She plucks away at my little heart" over the caustic squall of Kessler’s guitar. The gloomy "Stella Was A Diver And She Was Always Down" conjures images of bleak desperation, as Banks’ plaintive cry of "Stella" gives way to a wash of serrated chords.

There’s a pensiveness belying these songs, particularly on the closing two tracks, "The New" and "Leif Erikson." "The New" shimmers gorgeously for the first four minutes, before abruptly metamorphosing into a Mission Of Burma-esque repetitive, droning rocker. Closer "Leif Erikson" is fraught with tension, building so gradually that you think there’s going to be an anthemic climax, but it never comes, gently smoldering away beneath resplendent chiming guitars as Banks languidly intones, "it’s like learning a new language, you’ll come here to me."

Certainly one of the best albums of the year, Bright Lights is a magnificent achievement. Hopefully these guys will be at this for a while. They’ve released one of the finest debut albums in recent memory, and seem destined for even greater things.

Eric Carr, Pitchfork Media, August 19th, 2002

As you read this, there are likely a number of people in your midst summoning up all the backlash powers their mortal frames can bear, those who believe the boys from Interpol to be the latest shock troops in the battle of PR style over artistic substance. And who can blame them? After the veritable shitstorm of publicity drummed up by a certain New York City band-- one that had the audacity to not be the denim-clad messiahs of rock and roll we'd been promised-- directing a little skepticism toward NYC's buzzmongers is probably healthy. Plus, at a glance, Interpol's snazzy suits and expensive haircuts seem symptomatic of a carefully spun image designed purely to separate money from wallets. It's okay to be suspicious.

But back up. These guys are on Matador, not RCA. The hypester division of Matador is a guy in a closet (and he's only part-time); the 'spin' budget for Interpol wouldn't even be a down-payment on Julian Casablancas' designer leather jacket. The fact that these guys see press at all can only be attributed to their die-hard contingent of fans (I'm only recently converted), and was earned purely through legwork and a handful of underpublicised EPs. And now that they've won our attention, after three years of toiling in obscurity, it's mere icing that their debut full-length delivers upon what the whispers only hinted at.

Interpol's debut full-length is wrought with emotional disconnection and faded glory, epic sweep and intimate catharsis. Inevitably, the hype exceeds return (that's why it's hype-- and, to be fair, Interpol has largely flown under the radar compared to most other NYC acts), but there's no getting around that Turn On the Bright Lights is an incredibly powerful and affecting album. Loss, regret, and a minor key brilliantly permeate jangling guitars and rhythmic and tonal shifts-- and although it's no Closer or OK Computer, it's not unthinkable that this band might aspire to such heights.

Speaking of Closer, Interpol can't seem to shake being likened to Factory prodigies Joy Division. The cause, however, isn't necessarily evident. Indeed, Daniel Kessler's sublime, angular downstrokes follow the smooth confidence of Carlos Dengler's basslines, and Paul Banks sings with Ian Curtis' downcast delivery and dramatic flair. The difference, however, lies in the music itself: what Joy Division played was sparse and jagged-- punk with a melancholy, but often minimalist bent. Interpol, meanwhile, are punk in ethic alone; their music bears few of that genre's signatures, with the band instead immersing themselves in a grander, more theatrical atmosphere with lush production that counters their frustrated bombast.

"I will surprise you sometimes/ I'll come around/ When you're down," Banks gently affirms over echo-drenched guitar simplicity and rolling bass, as "Untitled" hovers on artificial strings to open Bright Lights. The words are plaintive yet assertive, in agreement with the unsteady warble of the background, and they set the tone for an album that is equally paradoxical-- often bleak, but surprisingly uplifting. Each of the album's eleven tracks evoke raw, unsettling need suffused with delicate serenity. It can be difficult to absorb this much emotional relentlessness, as Banks unflinchingly confronts you with it at all times, but it's precisely this challenge that makes this record so staggering.

The visceral punch of the thematic content is backed at every turn by melody among serrated riffs and amorphous percussion. Discussing the highs and lows of Bright Lights would just be splitting hairs, given its consistency, but a few tracks stand inches above the others. Of the two songs to be carried over from their self-titled EP, "NYC"'s conflicted show of conditional love for the streets of Interpol's hometown is still one of the most brilliant cuts present. And as tight as the EP was, Interpol show how much more they're capable of with "Obstacle 1" and "The New," the range between which is striking. "Obstacle 1" is as close to Joy Division as Interpol gets, coupling harsh, restrained outbursts of aggression with disturbing imagery as Banks clearly gasps, "You'll go stabbing yourself in the neck." The tense lead guitar is a counterpoint, giving these explosive bursts added depth, just as Ian Curtis' emotional collapses were made more poignant by the fragile guitar that cradled them. By the time the album reaches "The New," the anger has dissipated, leaving only the calm sound of sober acceptance.

The tragedy of music press is that when the buzz spirals out of control, people are apt to question a great band's validity, whereas if the band went largely unknown and was 'discovered' independently, so to speak, folks would be less likely to reject the praise out of hand. Whether that will happen with Interpol remains to be seen, but as a member of the press, it's my duty to tell you, from one music fan to another, what I personally think of an album, and in this case, it's that Turn On the Bright Lights has been one of the most strikingly passionate records I've heard this year. That other people I've spoken with have the opportunity to experience it, and that they feel similarly about it, can only be a good thing.

Devon Powers, Pop Matters, August 30st, 2002

I find something terribly tragic about Interpol. It's more than Paul Banks' elegiac vocals, which stir my gut every time I hear them, so much so that I often have to pause songs in the middle to catch my breath and count to 10. It's more than the chilled contemplation and obvious wit in their songwriting, which send the mind reeling and the body into fits in an attempt to make sense of the rhythmic and ideological formations. And it's more than the sometimes frightening similarity between their sound and that of premier tragic band Joy Division, the history of said group giving depth and volume to Turn on the Bright Lights like some kind of musical footnote.

No -- what's heartbreaking has to do with New York City, the metropolis Interpol call home, and the furious way its media machine can devour a band and hoist it to unnatural heights, whether deserving or no. This feeding frenzy more often than not exhausts a band's potential prematurely, inviting detractors and fans almost one for one, until sheer buzzkill can make anyone want to avoid certain artists, even ones they love. Interpol -- who have been gaining attention for months thanks to live shows, an EP released earlier this summer, and the infectious velocity of the song "PDA" -- could very well fall prey to this overhyped fate, becoming just another "Band of the Moment". But they're musicians that deserve reverence that takes longer than a New York minute. They deserve to be listened to on repeat, studied, and absorbed, because they're doing more than simply riding a trend -- they're writing history.

Turn on the Bright Lights begins with the shivering "Untitled", which opens with a pulsing, solitary guitar filtered through echoing effects that carry on for over half a minute. A post-punk trademark in slow motion, this technique immediately signals that the song is a sober, deliberative one, and that Interpol are not a band out for cheap thrills. The lyrics betray this: "I will surprise you sometimes / I'll come around," Banks repeats again and again, each time more confidently than the next but managing to remain understated, soothing. Bass and drums by this time have joined in, and once Banks breaks singing they cascade, swelling to a contained yet spectacular volume, pushing the edges to their near breaking point before easing down.

"Obstacle 1" follows, an incessant, throbbing number in which Banks' vocals quake with manic urgency -- think Ian Curtis possessed by a wild-eyed, '80s David Byrne. The song masterfully pairs opposites -- ejaculatory guitar blats against systematic drumming, rhythmic and ordered bass against panicked singing that often drowns in the noise (with the notable exception of the song's most disturbing lyric, "you'll go stabbing yourself in the neck.") The slow and symmetrical "NYC", also on their aforementioned EP, follows. Focusing on the simple beauty of Banks' singing and his introspective lyricism, the song goes back and forth between visions of public chaos and more private, alienated turmoil: "Subway, she is a porno / Pavements, they are a mess / I know you supported me for a long time / Somehow, I'm not impressed."

Though much of Turn on the Bright Lights plays on the heady solemnity of post-punk-meets-modern-isolation, there are songs that toy with other influences. The gripping "PDA", already a New York jukebox classic, burns with the intelligent rage so characteristic of The Fall; "Say Hello to the Angels" uses a bopping minor guitar chord progression that's reminiscent of the Pixies; "The New" has the bruising emotion of Echo & the Bunnymen. And the album ends with "Leif Erikson", which, like its Viking namesake, sails the album toward the serene potential of another world.

Plainly stated, Turn on the Bright Lights is the album modern followers of post-punk have been waiting for. It is the album that makes all the hub-bub about the New York City music scene of late seem justified; it is the album that makes the time we're living through feel like an era rather than a haphazard, disconnected series of events. I don't generally believe in making commercial pleas in reviews, but I strongly suggest that you go out and buy this album. It will arrest you during your waking hours, stir you from your sleeping, and, all the while, it will broodingly break your heart.

Rob Sheffield, Rolling Stone, Issue 904, September 5th, 2002

Pretty girls make graves, but pretty boys make bands, and the four likely lads of Interpol are so audaciously resplendent in their doom-and-gloom guitar ambience, you just have to tip your cap. Like many other New York indie bands, these well-dressed young men are bewitched by classic British art fucks such as Echo and the Bunnymen, Joy Division, Ride and the Smiths. But Interpol's sleek, melancholy sound is a thing of glacial beauty. After three mouthwatering EPs, they sound totally assured on their first full-length album, as singer Paul Banks mutters about the various depressed ladies in his life over reverb-drenched guitar drones. In their greatest song, "Obstacle 1," these guys can't even decide which Joy Division tune they're trying to bite, beginning with "She's Lost Control," segueing into "Disorder" and accidentally coming up with a brilliant new tune of their own. With gems such as "PDA," "Roland" and the fabulously titled "Stella Was a Diver and She Was Always Down," Interpol make head music as impeccably tailored as their Dolce & Gabbana suits.

© Frank Steven Groen