By this point, there’s not much to distinguish one Interpol album from another. Since their 2002 debut, Turn on the Bright Lights, the dapper New Yorkers have combined ’80s post-punk reservation with modern indie-rock disconnection. Their fourth album — self-titled, so it’s supposed to herald some big changes after 2007’s major-label bomb, Our Love to Admire — sinks under the weight of its weariness. The guitars still strike ominous notes, the beats are still vaguely danceable, and frontman Paul Banks still sounds like he’s channeling Ian Curtis. But Interpol never really goes anywhere — the album settles into a languid groove from the start and doesn’t budge. “Lights” and “Barricade” try to get something started with twistier rhythms and flashier choruses, but even they begin to stall after four minutes. These guys were way more fun when it sounded like they were having fun. —Michael Gallucci
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