Interpol’s been singing about shadowy cityscapes and stylish unease for over two decades now, and somehow Paul Banks still sounds like he’s trying to out-cryptic himself. “We as a species are really prone to generating stories and narratives,” he tells me. “Sometimes fiction holds more sway than truth, because the truth is too dull or too dark or too harsh to really process.”
The band’s seventh record, The Other Side of Make-Believe, is full of that same tension—between chaos and control, fable and fact, godless angels and a guy named Mr. Credit. Banks name-drops Freud, mythology, Fritz Lang, and the phrase “spiritually diabetic” without blinking. “There’s a dearth of trust,” he says, trying to explain why everyone is suddenly obsessed with conspiracies. “It’s more reassuring to think there are evil people in charge, because at least you can find and stop them. The alternative—that no one’s in charge and everything’s chaos—is way scarier.”
There’s a character called Mr. Credit on the album. “He sounds like a good guy,” Banks admits, “but he’s not.” There’s also a song titled “Fables” and the word appears in Passenger too. “There’s a purpose to how we string ideas together to make meaning out of chaos,” he says, before acknowledging that sometimes that meaning-making becomes a smokescreen. “I’m in it too,” he confesses. “I don’t pretend I’m immune.”
And what about Renegade Hearts, the track with lyrics about programmable fears and eternity and steering subliminally? “That one’s three civilizations into the future,” he says casually. “Sort of post-apocalyptic love story vibes.” Of course it is.
When asked about the Meet Me in the Bathroom doc, which chronicles Interpol’s early days in New York’s early-2000s rock boom, Banks doesn’t hesitate: “Didn’t read it, didn’t watch it.” Not because he doesn’t trust it—he calls author Lizzy Goodman “a close friend” and praises the filmmakers—but because, as he puts it, “it’s like hearing yourself on an answering machine, but 5,000 times worse.”
The lyrics may be dense, the meanings abstract, but Banks insists they’re honest—if subconsciously delivered. “I used to get melody and lyrics at different times, but now I get them all at once,” he says. “There’s something meaningful in that. Even if I can’t always explain it.”
It’s that evasive, elliptical logic that’s made Interpol a cult—one that’s somehow thrived in the TikTok era by refusing to make sense. Banks talks about lyrics arriving as if by séance. “Sometimes now I just get melody and lyrics all at once,” he says. “It’s like the songs already know what they want to be. They just use me to get there.” If that sounds mystical, it’s also kind of punk: less method acting, more automatic writing.
He's not big on decoding things after the fact, either. “I’ve never had a great inclination to unpack them,” he shrugs. “Maybe there’s more meaning in that.” .
Interpol may still be writing fables—but they’re the kind that make the truth feel just uncomfortable enough to stick.
Watch the interview above and then check out the videos below.
