By rock 'n' roll standards, Interpol is pathologically remote. There were, ironically, none of the antics that usually enliven such proceedings. The band, fleshed out by a touring keyboardist, performed in near darkness, eerily lit from beneath and behind by spinning funnels of light. It was virtually impossible to identify a face, let alone an expression. Frontman Paul Banks reduced his human functions to fingers on strings and an ominous drone. Not a wisp of hair, nor an immaculate rhythm, nor a restrained, gorgeous note was out of place.
All of which should have added up to something vaguely comatose. Yet for all the cool calculation, Interpol's concert was utterly penetrating. The drama was far more oblique (but no less visceral if austere post-punk is your thing) than the heart-on-sleeve theatrics of a typical rock show. Yearning and disappointment and torment didn't erupt in a mess of emotions. Misery was insinuated, with deceptive panache, in Daniel Kessler's expansive, melancholy-soaked guitar missives and Sam Fogarino's desperately measured beats and Carlos D.'s tragic love affair with his bass. Banks, so immutable in stature and in sound, carries the weight of the world in the spooked cracks of his vibrato.
But Banks is warming as a songwriter. ''Antics," from which Interpol drew heavily during its 90-minute set on Wednesday, is incrementally more tuneful and accessible than the band's 2002 debut, ''Turn on the Bright Lights." The song ''Slow Hands," while as pointed and precise as the computerized army of white lights that accompanied it, slipped into a sort of pristine grooviness on the chorus. On the new single ''Evil," guitars pulsed and paused, finally spilling into a startlingly jaunty mood and this newfound, if still elliptical, glimmer of optimism from Banks: ''It took a lifespan with no cellmate/ the long way back/ Sandy, why can't we look the other way?"
Washington, D.C., trio Q and Not U opened the show with a stripped, kinetic mash of funk, punk, indie-rock, and disco. Singer/multi-instrumentalist Christopher Richards is the love child of Axl Rose and James Brown. He pranced and shimmied to nasty little nuggets arranged for bass, cowbell, and synthesizer. Or hi-hat, electric guitar, and piano note. This group is as weird as its name, and a lot more exhilarating.
Joan Anderman can be reached at anderman@globe.com
