If The Strokes were the stars of early 2000s New York City’s indie-rock revival then Interpol were the gutter. A crepuscular recess of nihilistic sex and drugs that was, for a brief but very thrilling moment, channelled into deliciously deviant post-punk songs awash with seedy subway rides, catatonic sex-toy lovers and public perversion.

But heaps of touring and ill behaviour took their toll, and Interpol’s lustre seemed to leave them around the same time as bassist Carlos Dengler did in 2010. By which point, as documented in Lizzy Goodman’s entertaining if ultimately dispiriting oral history Meet Me In The Bathroom: Rebirth And Rock And Roll In New York City 2001–2011, commercially savvier next-wavers like The Killers and Kings Of Leon had stolen a march on them (and everyone, The Strokes included). On their epochal debut album, 2002’s Turn On The Bright Lights, and to a similar if already lesser extent its 2004 follow-up Antics, Interpol made irresistible music about life in the dark shadows of Manhattan. These days they make music in its shadow.

New records have continued to flow every four years, but it’s been a steady grind of diminishing returns. There is precious little on Interpol’s seventh album The Other Side Of Make-Believe (which, oddly enough, was part-written in Edinburgh after singer Paul Banks got stranded there during the first lockdown) that sonically distinguishes this set of songs. Not Daniel Kessler’s cautiously clipped guitar lines, nor Paul Banks’ moody tenor or Sam Fogarino’s heavy shuffling drums. All of it sounds like more of the same, but with none of the icy-sure hooks and evocative sinister-romantic lyrics which mark Interpol’s best work. Diehard fans will clutch at some of the marginally less stodgy and lumpen songs such as ‘Toni’ and ‘Greenwich’ for succour. To anyone else’s ears, this is an utter drag of a listen.

The Other Side Of Make-Believe is out now on Matador Records.