ince when has music criticism been reduced to the tired cat-and-mouse game of spot the influence? A cursory glance at most music publications today would lead one to believe that a) no “new” music has been made for at least the last eleven years, and b) only a handful of groups have made said “new” music since the advent of rock. And while the majority of these allegations are not unfounded, the idea of reducing every band to the lowest common denominator is both crass and pointless. Christ, what band has ever existed and created music without any influence whatsoever? And have these people ever listened to anything besides the aforementioned golden handful? I can tell you right now that The Vines don’t sound a damn thing like Nirvana. The fact that their singer occasionally unleashes a highly bastardized (and infinitely less affecting) version of the late Mr. Cobain’s sarcastic yelp doesn’t even begin to justify such claims.


Interpol singer Paul Banks narrates his songs with a morose baritone drawl, not unlike the late Mr. Ian Curtis of Joy Division, who are, if I’ve read enough New York Times record reviews, one of only two post-punk bands to ever exist (along with Gang of Four, who are in turn inherent in every band with loud, slicing guitars.) Rather than perpetuate such laziness/ignorance, I can safely say that the only characteristic that links Interpol to Manchester’s best is the same thing that unites them with unrelentingly anguished Beat Happening.


Following a couple of EPs on UK imprint Chemikal Underground, New York City’s Interpol joined the hallowed and seriously hurting ranks of local Matador Records, and assembled this three-song EP, a telling precursor to their debut album, to be released this August. Arriving in the wake of gloriously idiosyncratic offerings from hometowners The Walkmen and The Liars (as well as substantially more over-hyped ones from Yeah Yeah Yeah’s and Radio 4,) the timing couldn’t be better for this EP. On the strength of these three tracks, Interpol makes a serious case for inclusion amongst the pool top new bands this country has to offer. Nevertheless, this isn’t Britain-- here, we try not to make such unabashed claims after hearing what’s not even enough music to provide the soundtrack for the making of a Pop Tart.


A propulsive drumbeat and nervous, edgy guitars drive the opener, “PDA,” a song that gives the perfect overview of the group’s intentions. Tension builds subtly, without the noticeable aid of a crescendo. Instead, Banks' voice morphs from a nearly monotone ebb to a frantic, uneasy mess, without ever completely deviating from its origin. A short instrumental passage heralds a sweeping conclusion, awash with cymbals and a soothingly distant vocal. The transition showcases the band’s key asset: the ability to drastically change the underlying composition of a song without ever detracting from the main theme or focal point, and most importantly, without ever unsettling the mood of the listener. There’s no telling where this technique could go with due practice.


Closer “Specialist” is an even more terse affair, with Banks chanting “you make me lose my buttons, oh yeah, you make me spit, I don’t like my clothes anymore” over stark, repetitive bass accompaniment that gives way to a continual adding of instruments: first guitar, then drums, eerie feedback, and finally, a main guitar line (yet another approach to the building of pressure.) The lucidity of the song’s despair borders on Goth, a line that it would probably cross if not for that funky-as-hell bass line. The final result is nothing short of mesmerizing.


While these two tracks give the impression that muted anger is the band’s strong suit, they are broken apart by the absolutely stunning “NYC,” a slow-burning, brooding, bleeding valentine to their hometown. It is here that the group’s depth is truly felt. The slight reverb attached to the music illuminates the many dimensions of the instruments being played. The lightly strummed guitars resound with the magnificence of violins, complementing the string-quartet synth moans. As the drums hold down like anvils flecked with balloons, a more vigorously strummed guitar (like the one previously used to great effect on the opening climax of Built To Spill’s “Time Trap”) wafts behind a poignant harmony and Banks' voice-- for the only time on the EP-- actually singing. It’s a truly powerful moment, and is only one component of one of the year’s best songs.


So this sixteen minute offering only makes a dent, albeit a considerable one, on 2002’s radar. The anticipation that it mounts for the LP is sizeable, and the band is highly noteworthy. Sounds enough like the recipe for success these days, don’t you think?


Wait, did I just say “nervous guitar” back there? In that case, ladies and gentlemen, meet the new Feelies! Let the New Jersey guitar revival begin!