News | Bio | Discography | Evidence | Forum | Extras | Front

City

A

Date

a

Venue

Leeds, England, United Kingdom

 a

August 23, 2003

 a

Leeds Festival Carling Weekend

 

Review

  

By Helen

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     For the uninitiated: this was no ordinary Interpol show. As part of the sprawling Carling Weekend – a roster of bands rotating their sets round two ends of the country – their name settled somewhere between Ladytron and The Polyphonic Spree on our dog-eared laminates, the day itself sandwiched by reams of Your New Favourite Bands on both Friday and Sunday. Here was a festival’s second day shimmering with heat, awash with Linkin Park tees, fuelled by dubious foodstuffs and peopled by nouveau skate-punkers sniffing vials before passing out. Having won over the savvy few in the tiny Carling tent the previous year, would Interpol work their magic a little further up the bill and a lot further to the fore of the public’s minds?

     The signs were there. A homemade Interpol shirt caught the eye earlier on in the day, albeit on a kid beating up his mate in the queue to get their phones charged. By 7.35pm, the Radio 1 tent was packed out with punters all vying for the best view of our New New York heroes. Yet unlike the Yeah Yeah Yeahs the previous night, there was no crushing forward surge as Interpol took the stage. The results of the band’s heavy touring, this crowd was in love already. They knew the drill, they were here to lose themselves.

     And losing it was the theme of the show. Interpol have the crisp suits, but not the stony façade. From the five figures’ entrance to the stage to their last note left ringing in the early evening air, people enjoyed themselves (goddamnit). ‘Hands Away’ was transformed completely by a rhythm section straight from the hands of the centre crowd. Yes, it was strange. Yeah, a little laughable. And indeed, a whole lot of fun. The band posed for us, played for us, once-in-a-while-smiled for us. Maybe it was just the hopelessly devoted guy to my left, but those familiar song openings burst into the tent’s confinement meaning something completely different to each person there. They were Interpol’s songs once. Then they were, supposedly, NYC’s. Now they were ours. ‘Stella’ fed us bittersweet emotion, ripped from the heart of Paul Bank’s lament. ‘Obstacle 1’ was an urgent call to those who had drowned in the hype of soundbitten journalists; ‘PDA’ a slap on the ass to those who thought these besuited guys would never move them. (To the chagrin of cover bands everywhere, Daniel left out those oh-so-hard-to-catch last words of the backing vocals. Think he’s having fun there?) ‘NYC’ swelled to epic proportions whilst never quite forgetting its fragile core, and in addition the new songs were received avidly, consumed and validated by an enrapt audience.

     So in short, I was sold. Everyone surrounding me was sold. The Carling festival was sold (apart from maybe those unconscious skate-punkers). But it’s nice to know that when you hand over yourself to Interpol, they only give you something better in return.