A beautiful darkness inside

IN the glib shorthand of in-the-know rock fans, English quartet Editors is the new Interpol, the latest in a steady stream of bands from both sides of the Atlantic that are enamored with the beautiful darkness of emotional angst. The U.K. group does share some DNA with its New York City counterpart, including the icy-bleak gothic gloom of Joy Division and the gloomy-romantic ‘80s guitar-rock of the Smiths. But during its sold-out Tuesday performance at Avalon Hollywood, Editors proved a different variation on modern pop’s repurposing-post-punk theme.

On this final night of their U.S. tour, singer-guitarist Tom Smith, lead guitarist Chris Urbanowicz, bassist Russell Leetch and drummer Ed Lay played their hourlong set with an effortless, propulsive joy that contrasted with the brooding mood of its debut album, “The Back Room.” Except that “there’s beauty in the lonely,” as goes a line from the set-opening “Someone Says” -- and celebrating that was a big part of the point.

In its native land, the Birmingham-bred band has hit singles and is nominated for the prestigious Mercury Music Prize alongside such luminaries as Thom Yorke and fellow hot newcomers including Guillemots and Arctic Monkeys. Its U.S. profile is rising, with an appearance at Lollapalooza last weekend, some scheduled late-night TV talk show appearances this week and, of course, with fans such as those at Avalon, who happily sang along and even clapped in rhythm once or twice.

The members all studied music technology at university, where they met, but their songs were not particularly gear-headed, despite the rack of guitars and a constantly tuning roadie at one side of the stage. The nimble, rock-solid rhythm section infused both a danceable beat and an undercurrent of punk energy into the bouncy jangle of “All Sparks” and the sinister juggernaut “Bullets.” And, while Urbanowicz’s melodic-to-dissonant guitar work was perhaps not as expressive as that of Interpol’s Daniel Kessler, he gave the droning songs different distinct flavors that helped keep things interesting -- no small feat when the pitch stayed nearly the same all night -- and his mournful filigree on slower numbers such as “Fall” added dimension to Smith’s yearning vocals.

The engaging singer, who occasionally played keyboards, often luxuriated in the music’s blissful emotional twitchiness, stirring the air with his hands and hugging himself, gleefully writhing in the grip of songs that conveyed a sense of unbearable loss that’s always about to happen. His resonant baritone captured a youthful sense of alienation and isolation -- the internalized suspense of What if I don’t speak? What if I don’t act? What if I never reach out? -- that simultaneously harbored a need for connection. Yet despite such longing, he expressed in “Blood” a viciously wry disdain for some members of the human race, sneering, “Blood runs through your veins / That’s where our similarity ends.”

Editors was best when infusing urgency into its self-imposed bereavement, as in the stark heartbreak of “You Are Fading.” Yet the few truly lonely moments -- such as the aching “Camera,” in which Smith at the keyboard was backlit by blinding light while the rest of the stage stayed dark -- hinted at a deeper intensity to come.