III. Interpol

One of the most amazing things about music is how a certain record or song or band can be intrinsically connected with a particular person in your life long after you have ceased to interact with that person. This is particularly true for me with regard to boyfriends and people I have dated, even casually. I can think of two songs that I can no longer listen to (one by Pavement, one by the Afghan Whigs) because of boys that I was involved with. But, I was determined to reclaim lower east side, sine wave rockers Interpol for myself.

The first and only time that I have seen the band perform was at Brownies during the third night of the CMJ Music Marathon. Lead singer Paul Barnes is not only one of the prettiest boys I have ever seen (I’m not attracted to him in the least, but his prettiness is kinda overwhelming) and his voice sounds an awful lot like Joy Division’s Ian Curtis.

It was on this evening that I preceded to meet a boy named Tom who I would (to synopsize our relationship briefly) date, get screwed over by, get contacted by, and get screwed over by again. Being jerked around once is one thing, having a boy do it to you twice is quite another.

That night, I was sitting in my “regular” spot on the left side of Brownies, with earplugs in canal. During the evening, I chatted with a couple of people attending CMJ, a couple more who I knew from work, and some band members who I had seen play the two prior nights.

I was at Brownies that night to see The Walkmen and Zero Zero, and planned to hop aboard the subway after those two sets to catch Clem Snide and Bill Janovitz across the river in Brooklyn. I never made it to Brooklyn that night. Rather, I ended up hanging out with this Tom who I had met at the show. He was sitting right beside me for nearly an hour before we started chatting and joking around.

The Walkmen played a so-so set, but I was enjoying hanging out with Tom and decided to skip the cross-river jaunt (I’d seen Clem Snide play that weekend already, anyway). Instead of leaving, I stayed to check out the night’s two remaining bands.

Interpol stepped on stage, clad in black suits, and the quartet preceded to release a series of eerie, compelling songs into the air. I was pretty impressed by their set.

One of the strangest things that I have ever experienced at Brownies (or any show, for that matter) happened that very night. Four marines, probably stationed in NYC as a result of September 11th, drunkenly stumbled into the low key, downtown hipster bar during the final band’s set. The band, My Favorite, was a gay friendly, keyboard heavy act that had a much diminished audience dancing away in front of the stage. One of the Marines got rather boisterous and harassed the band and fellow show goers. From what I could discern, one guy in the audience made an off hand comment to the leatherneck, and next thing we knew, the Marine jumped the guy. A bouncer came over with a club and beat the brawny cadet off of the other guy and the four members of America’s armed forces were escorted from the tiny rock club.

Tom and I laughed and speculated about the happenings as the show came to a close. He asked me if I wanted to grab a drink (it was a Friday night and only 1:30 a.m.) and I agreed and we spent the next two hours talking at a coffee shop down the street until they kicked us out. We exchanged numbers and started going out for a short while. And then he stopped calling.

Very cliché situation. And I felt very odd. I wasn’t looking for a serious relationship, but I had liked him more than I liked most anyone I had seen in quite a while. He was smart, funny, strange and good looking.

Anyhow, I got over it. And then about a month later, I opened up my mail box to find a strange envelope inside. It was obviously from someone I knew, because of the way that it was addressed. But, there was no return address, and no note inside. Just a photo of Interpol clipped from a magazine.

I put two and two together and solicited my brother for some advice. He said that if I liked Tom, I should send him an e-mail. I’m not sure that I still liked him at that point, but the experience was so “after school specially” that I couldn’t resist.

I dropped him a clever e-mail which stated, “I got this strange envelope in the mail the other day-no return address, no note, just a clipping of Interpol. Is it from you or should I be concerned that someone else is stalking me through my most obscure musical tastes?”

A couple of days later he replied with an e-mail that read, “hmmm...” I didn’t reply after that and concluded that he was a bastard.

It could have ruined Interpol for me, but I made a concerted effort to not let that happen. When I stumbled upon their self-released EP in my local record store, I bought it immediately. I refused to let a boy who was a dick to me twice sabotage a good rock band.