Interpol

Anumber of things have changed in Camp Interpol since we last heard from the NYC gloom-rock dudes: In May, the band posted a note on its Web site announcing that fashion-plate bassist Carlos D had split in order to "follow another path, and to pursue new goals." And after a brief stint in the major-label world, Interpol are back with Matador Records, the New York mega-indie that released the group's first two albums. Interpol, the tellingly titled follow-up to 2007's Our Love to Admire, was released last month. Even so, a number of other things haven't changed so much. "I do get the feeling," front man Paul Banks says, "that unless you really, really listen to our music, you probably have the wrong idea about what kind of person I am." What do all those shallow listeners think? "That I'm depressive, jaded, cynical, bitter and pretty angry a lot of the time." Ah, yes — that. "I'm really not this brooding, sad guy," Banks continues. "But whatever. If people have this totally one-dimensional view, that's fine. It'd probably bother me more if I weren't so confident in our music." The singer comes by that confidence honestly: On Interpol, he and his bandmates manage the seemingly unmanageable task of finding new wrinkles in a tightly defined sound, one that's been theirs for nearly a decade. Tunes like "Lights" and "Always Malaise (The Man I Am)" — um, Paul? — offer up minor-key melodies and mosquito-buzz guitars but take all kinds of weird structural detours that feel more downtown art-song than Williamsburg indie-rock.