Subway. Deep in the bowels of the New York City transit system. There are no attendants on duty. A man sits on the far side of the room on a bench reading a newspaper. There is a girl down at the end of the plank wearing an ipod and holding her purse tight. A laughing gaggle of drunken partygoers come screaming and hollering down the escalator. The train finally comes, some color or number, and you blindly step inside to set sail on a journey through an unknown evening in the city that never sleeps. You are the only person in your car with newspapers on the ground and nothing but time for company. The sun will be up soon and another mundane day will ignite. The consistency will be altered slightly but the homogenized agenda will not buckle. You are alone on a train to nowhere surrendering whats left of your god given senses to Our Love To Admire, the third release from Interpol.
The first couple of songs provide lush scenery for your bleary-eyed travels. Very dreamy visuals like ghosts hovering over a cemetery show continue to wander in purgatory during the album's monstrous opener "Pioneer to the Falls". Your unhinged travels continue through a vague and desolate slice of tangible life found on "No I in Threesome". You are still thinking about which news article that man was reading in his paper or what song that young female was downloading into her bubble brain. And where were all of the attendants, you ask yourself.
Once you pass down under the tunnel of "Scale" you hear that traditional Interpol guitar of Paul Banks and wonder if you have been on this ride before. Seems and sounds like you have ridden this stormy rail before. You know the ride, the one that begins real early in the crack of dawn morn, with no true destination, only one terribly necessary mission, which demands that you get your weak ass to the front door of your dealer sooner than not.
Knock knock knock. Your shaking fist continues to bang on your man's door with a lunatic's determination in the hallway of a shotty Bronx apartment building way up on 206th street. You hammer your paw against the kid's door and "where the hell is this guy with my stuff?" your junkie mind wants to know. The door opens only until the chain lock catches it. A pair of frightful eyes meet you with a smile. "How are things on the West Coast?" he says at the beginning of the heavy whacker "Heinrich Maneuver" which immediately slams your licentious adventure into overdrive. Your man loads you up with a syringe of what you went there for and you look at the dealer and explain to him "today my heart swings" as you quickly evacuate his unlawful flat.
Back on the slick pavement now your floating body feels like ten thousand bucks when ten thousand bucks used to mean something in this world full of richie riches. The New York sunshine on this summer day is obnoxious and heavy. The police cruisers seem to be lurking around every corner and your paranoid mind rewinds the message "save me the suspense" on the tune "Mammoth."
The yecchy guitars which erotically open up the sadistic spinner "All Fired Up" helps to elevate your titanic high as you roam around the city with adrenaline rushing like Niagara Falls. The energy belongs to you now, all of the world's power coursing through your junkie veins. Congratulations, it looks like you scored big, what a winner. The pep in your walk is exceptional, so much so, that you even shuffle those ratty shoes of yours at the stop light until the color turns green. Doing damage to the sizzling pavement are your left and right foot, walking all over that sweltering cement like a former friend.
As you make it over to Ray's pizza for a slice you look at all of the delectable youths near Washington Square Park, smoking blunts and drinking soda pop with straws. You nod your head but refuse to nod off, for you are a dope legend around these parts, never surrendering to an embarrassing overdose. "Who Do You Think?" does begin to make you a wee bit paranoid and you wipe the grease off your hands and make for the subway train like a New York doll.
Sitting beneath the earth in that gritty and smelly tunnel you see an overwhelming collection of train takers, waiting for their perfect escape. "Wrecking Ball" is the preferred come down for this day of lucid fantasy that might have began three weeks ago, for all you know, as time in regards to an Interpol album seems to elude even the makers of music themselves. There are no clocks on any walls, anywhere. You must leave this scene and rest your head, dear boy, for you have begun to feel ill.
The gentle fluttering of guitars on the album closer "Lighthouse" help escort you back to the safety of your mind as you find yourself back on that moving car, revisiting your man in the boogie down Bronx, for one more final hit. "What do the waves have to say now?" sings Banks as the whole custom suit wearing band plays in the car with you, standing on the discarded news that rests on the gum stained floor. The slow moving dream serenade provides an complimentary score for your dope sick heart. You are in love, at this moment, higher than a cumulonimbus cloud, or any above that one on the cloud chain of command.
As the flickering luminescence on "Lighthouse" slowly fades, your body does too. It has been extremely rough, living with this dragging addiction, coping with this fatal need to cop one last ride on the white horse. You make it to the hallway where your man calls home. As you get close enough to the door, your exasperated hand faintly pats the wooden entrance to a roomful of new needles and pure dirt powder. Oh to be inside that room, you think to yourself, seconds before breathing the final gasp that you will ever breathe.
"Who Do You Think?"