From the pining trills and frustrated tremolo pickings of “My Desire” to the Stella-Was-A-Diver imagery of “Breaker 1” and “Tidal Wave,” El Pintor reverberates with the stylistic and thematic echoes of their debut. Here we reach the crux of Interpol’s problem. “All the Rage Back Home” kicks off with the slides and pull-offs of a maudlin guitar lick, its lilting reverb slowly igniting an anti-love story in which such lighthearted wisecracks as “She said, you don’t read minds” skirt around - you guessed it - the impossibility of love, of ever being able to have insight into another to the extent where you can truly claim to love them and not some stereotyped hypothesis of who they are. For Interpol, this psychological attrition usually refers to a female other, and El Pintor is no different in this regard. And before anyone raises El Pintor, their fifth album, as late proof of how being seriously bummed can actually be a springboard to greater things (the ability to write anagrams of your band’s name notwithstanding), let it be said that this much-needed tour through more-of-the-same is yet more evidence that baring your psychic boo-boos is merely a springboard into baring your psychic boo-boos over and over again. Have never moved beyond the melancholia of their debut. Unfortunately, this is bullshit, and even the most superficial listen to the anhedonic mire of the Interpol catalog would reveal that Paul Banks and co. Well, to take this week’s advertisement for pornographic despair qua cultural institution, Interpol might possibly claim that it serves to aid the whole recovery process via catharsis, to purge our systems of misery, and ultimately grow as people on various emotional, psychological, and spiritual levels.

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