These are unnatural greys. Interpol have sold us something untenable. There is bass and there are drums, and they meet somewhere in the night to receive wind and subterranean pulse. These instruments still function. The new record terminates at voice and guitar, which are now dispersed, abstract, bad carbon. On everything they leave black marks that signify how they are compromised. Paul Banks is not one but many; he throbs in and out of the mix in blunt choirs. He is approximating what it must feel like to have your head cratered by a rock. This rock is not even a particularly exceptional rock. It captures no peculiar strain of light. It travels in no specific arc. In its wake, a mess of blood and bone. An obtuse, grey pain. No economy, just dull muscle.