Paul Banks of Interpol, Bowery Ballroom, New York City, Dec. 20, 2002. Photo by Glyn Emmerson © 2003 NY Rock.

Interpol's masterful 2002 album Turn on the Bright Lights is heavy-hearted and yet manages to retain metallic coolness. Everyone compares them to Joy Division, but Interpol's songs aren't as fractured as Ian Curtis and crew. The music has its moments of post-punk jitters and danceable keyboards, but even those moments are solid. Long-faced harmonies and lachrymose vocals abound, but the band doesn't wallow in all the mire. Instead, broken hearts are met with naked wonderment. It's an odd mix of dark agony and shimmering ecstasy. In a sea of mongrel-looking bands who irrupt through their sets, Interpol's three sold-out nights at the Bowery Ballroom attest to the approval (relief?) of more melancholic music.

The four gentlemen onstage at the Bowery Ballroom appeared arty and reserved, but not icy, at least not when in the thick of a song or when saturated in the tidal wave of applause from the audience. With the bright lights illuminating them from behind, Paul Banks (vocals, guitar), Carlos Dengler (bass), Daniel Kessler (guitar), and Sam Fogarino (drums) were dressed in customary collared shirts and ties. (Banks didn't button his top button. Tisk, tisk.) Joining the band onstage was a keyboardist whose hairdo was tres Flock of Seagulls. The set started with "Untitled," "Roland," and "Stella Was a Diver and She Was Always Down." People were jumping, women were shrieking, and the band was hardly a stoic monument to nonchalance. Dengler let his bass lead him while he rocked out. Banks and Kessler were content to bob in place, while Fogarino pummeled away behind them. Every song was met with cheers.

Paul Banks and Carlos Dengler of Interpol, Bowery Ballroom, NYC, 12/20/02. Photo by Glyn Emmerson © 2003 NY Rock.

For a lead singer who comes off looking aloof, Banks is an intensely emotive singer. It's as if someone violently shoved a heart inside the chest of an alien robot and we're hearing him uncover the complex layers of busted love. It's not as if anyone ever gets used to having their heart broken – the shock is fresh each time around. Banks' eyes were closed tight in chaste awe rather than sorrow. At the first few chords of "NYC," disco lights slowly spun and the entranced crowd nearly had a stroke (ha). When Banks sang "I know you've supported me for a long time/ Somehow I'm not impressed/ but New York cares," it was bittersweet enough to make you forsake all the cooler-than-thou ethics, whip out a lighter, stick it in the air, and wave it around like you just didn't care.

"You guys dress so much better than the Strokes!" cried one enamored fan. The band cracked a few smiles and proceeded to rock out with "Obstacle 1" and "PDA." Even the nerdy hippies (and there were a few of them) danced like mods. Speaking of fans, the throngs were pretty diverse. I was expecting a bunch of demure tight-asses dressed to the nines, but it was good to see regular folks walking about. No one in attendance was lukewarm about their fondness for Interpol. I had the honor of standing next to the most annoying fan in the Bowery Ballroom. The dude looked like a mook, more of a hockey fan than a music fan. The kind of guy with a goofy bleached buzz-cut who loves his beefy forearms, who bellows at the top of his lungs, "Uh OH, UH OH, here it COMES!!" at the first few chords of a song. He was the kind of guy who yelled song lyrics off-key and shouted, "This fuckin' rock shit RIGHT HERE" while pointing to the stage. Even the band took notice of this chowderhead, if only to look in his general direction and raise their eyebrows in amusement. It was the last fan you'd expect at an Interpol concert, and for that, he was special. Annoying as fuck-all, but so it goes.

As the band played "Obstacle 2," the last song of their encore, they tried to keep up their Armani-tailored composure, but you could see through to their own hushed satisfaction. "Thank you so fucking much," said Banks. "You guys rule."