Interpol

This is the faceless, thousand yard stare of the post goth, post punk, post mortem Interpol gig goer. See how lifeless are his eyes, how the declamatory clang of Interpol's over used bangajanga guitar riff has worn away his slack jawed mouth. He has traveled further than every before to be here, this place, this N22, this Allie Pallie. He has endured pretentious, self involved noodling from a support band who frankly should have been stoned off the stage after one tune, rather than be allowed to play for over an hour. He has exchanged tokens for beer, tokens for cider, tokens for whiskey and coke, yet still the pain persists. The pain of post goth New York loucheness that gushes forth from the lips of Paul Banks as he barks:

Now I'm alone, you can't make amends/
Now I won't let you sit by/
But so call in the kids/
Now that's enough with this fucking incense

Just spare me the suspense

Yeah Paul, spare us all mate and fall on your fretboard.

Still, nice to get out and aways a pleasure to see the Elegant Analyst. Can I choose the next gig pretty please?

B