Interpol stays inside the darkness

When love goes wrong, when the world goes awry, sometimes you have to feel bad to feel better. These days, the soundtrack to your miserable mood might include the mopey songs of New York quartet Interpol, which on Thursday brought its dark, droning music to the Grand Olympic Auditorium for the first of two consecutive nights.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom for singer-guitarist Paul Banks, guitarist Daniel Kessler, bassist Carlos D. and drummer Sam Fogarino, who were joined by a touring keyboardist. But the selections from last year’s “Antics” and 2002’s “Turn on the Bright Lights” dealt mainly with romantic torment, the pain of rejection, the desperation of yearning and that sort of thing. If the lyrics to such numbers as “Slow Hands” were oblique, the music’s textured, persistent minor-key vibe filled in any emotional blanks.

Interpol’s bleak celebrations have propelled these indie-rock darlings from gritty clubs to bigger settings, a journey they’ve handled with casual panache and ever-sharpening skills. The guitars wove taut lines of longing around the pulsating rhythm, with Kessler at times broadcasting an expansive, wordless melancholy into the cavernous space.

His playing, in fact, proved more affecting than Banks’ monotonous baritone, which has garnered the band more comparisons to post-punk heroes Joy Division than it likes. The sound actually spans pop eras, at times evoking Echo & the Bunnymen or the Pixies, but also the starker energy of such peers as the Strokes.

This wasn’t introverted despair devoid of flash, but a big rock show, with shafts of eye-stabbing bright light and spatters of disco-ball glitter sweeping the air, and subtle plumes of smoke wisping to the rafters. The mostly young fans leaned happily against the barricades, bouncing and singing along, waving their arms and cellphones in the air.

If you weren’t as inclined to love Interpol, however, the hour-plus set quickly felt as if the same song was whining on and on and on. The tunes did vary somewhat, from the watery lilt of “Next Exit” to the urgent lurching of “PDA” to the throbbing ache of “Evil.” But catharsis ultimately succumbed to tedium, as all that tension allowed for little sweet release.