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Bloc Party Issue #23

A brief report from the British band’s winter tour with Interpol

By Kim Taylor Bennett
Published: March 1st, 2005 | 3:22pm

“Tonight we might see a mushroom meltdown,” remarks Matt Tong, Bloc Party’s lithe Chinese-English drummer backstage at the Paradiso in Amsterdam. “I’m afraid we’re going to see the layers peel away.”

Rewind two days: It’s 4 a.m. and we’re tucked into coffin-like bunks on Bloc Party’s tour bus. Ensconced in the bowels of a ferry, the waves of the English Channel rock the South London foursome to a fitful sleep. It’s been several hours since they strutted offstage at the Forum in London, the first show on a monthlong jaunt across Europe opening for Interpol in late 2004.

With a mop of mini-dreads, 23-year-old vocalist-guitarist Kele Okereke is Bloc Party’s handsome focal point. Flanked by Russell Lissack on guitar (silent, slight), Gordon Moakes on bass (shy, articulate), and Matt Tong (purveyor of stomach-socking beats), Bloc Party shares a kinship with groups such as the Futureheads and Franz Ferdinand. They’re artsy without being pretentious, bookish without being geeks, and decisively in the thrall of interlocking guitars, danceable drums, and insistent melodies. With hints of Robert Smith, Joy Division, and Idlewild, it’s a lethal cocktail destined to devastate.

The next morning, speeding toward Strasbourg, France, time is passed watching Curb Your Enthusiasm. Upstairs, Moakes spins Interpol’s debut, gleefully singing along with their manager and ex-Menswear guitarist, the eternally chirpy Simon White. In 2004, Bloc Party experienced a kaleidoscopic crash course on how to survive and surpass the prefix “next big thing.” They’ve played Japan, elbowed their way into the charts, and filled suitcases with free Adidas and Paul Frank booty while major labels threw down blank checks, only to be ignored. Recorded with producer Paul Epworth (the Futureheads, Babyshambles), Silent Alarm is a renegade debut, a white-hot rage against stultifying ennui, Okereke spitting, “Stop being so American” and “Are you hoping for a miracle (it’s not enough)” on “Helicopter.”

“That was a song about what I thought was going to happen in the November [U.S. presidential] election,” Okereke said, nodding sagely. “No one in Europe could understand how they let Bush back, but I always had a sense that nothing would change. There are some dark forces at play. They had people just where they wanted them.”

Far from delivering a dry political manifesto set to agit-pop, Okereke is also a modern romantic.

“Love is a big deal. There’s been a certain awakening in me when it comes to looking at the world. I don’t like what I see. That’s why I write songs,” Okereke clarified before adding with touching conviction: “Love is a balm to that. It makes you feel good again. I never thought I’d be someone who wrote in such sentimental terms, but I see its importance now more than ever.”

The Bloc Party boys are a contrary mix of puppyish excitement and eagle-eyed wariness. Already savvy to an industry that can sap souls, Okereke is uneasy with his newfound profile. Where groups like the Others are intent on breaking down the barrier between band and fan, such accessibility gives Bloc Party the fear.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for me personally. It’s something I’ve been thinking about recently, in terms of contact with fans,” said Okereke, his slight stutter amplified as he explained. “People assume a lot of things because they see you onstage. There’s a lot of false knowledge and that makes me uncomfortable. I can’t stand sycophancy, which is probably why Pete Doherty [of the Libertines] is in such a state. He’s surrounded by people telling him he’s great, rather than people who are honest. That’s really unavoidable in this industry.”

Moakes is more optimistic. “I still think when you’re in a band you can meet people who could be really important to you,” he said. “You want to believe that you’re getting on with them purely because of you, not because of what you do.”

Okereke looks pensive and says, “I can’t really believe that, actually. I think that’s my problem.”

Okereke said he values his relationships before the band’s success as very important. “Friends need to prove themselves, rather than just get you drugs at parties. As you’d vet any friend, you need to endure with them.”

The next evening after a triumphant show in Amsterdam, Interpol’s Paul Banks suggests we try the mushrooms they sampled on their last trip. Bitter, blackened kernels are doled out and washed down with tequila shots. Interpol guitarist Daniel Kessler guides us through rainy streets, a club address scrawled on a sodden napkin, as the warm, fuggy effects begin to kick in. Last time they were here, Banks swears he saw Nietzsche’s face on the tiles in the ladies’ toilet; Lissack and Okereke frequently collapse into uncontrollable giggles; the walls quiver ever so slightly. Tong and Karen Ruttner (of the New York DJing duo Tarts of Pleasure) have been circling the canal for an hour, staring into the water, collecting thoughts.

Decked out in monochrome and topped with Banks’ fedora, Kessler looks like a character from a Bogart movie. Someone hands him a cigarette and he lets it hang from the corner of his mouth. “How do you keep from going crazy on tour?” Okereke asks, eager to soak up advice from a more seasoned musician he clearly admires.

“There’s no one answer. Have fun, but pace yourself,” Kessler councils. “Take it easy. You’ll start to have friends in the various cities you visit. Take pleasure in that.”

Much later, after raiding the tour buses for as much drink as we can carry, we end up at the hotel in Amsterdam. Interpol’s Carlos D. holds court amid the beer and bodies; he is both arch and caustic. Half the time it’s difficult to tell if he’s joking, but it’s hard to take him too seriously when his hair — normally a flawless slick of black — has been frazzled by the dampness. Lissack bails first, refusing to take the lift to his room in case they get trapped within and he’s caught in the unfortunate situation of needing to take a shit.

Do you have any band rules?

Tong: No pissing in each other’s mouths. I’m not allowed to physically attack Kele. Gordon’s not allowed to play Grand Theft Auto for more than two hours, or he’ll develop nervous ticks and aggressive tendencies!

Okereke: We should all hug each other before we go to bed.

Tong: All right, that’s nice.

Okereke: That way we can eliminate any tension during the day.

Moakes: That’s a good idea.

When the endless night draws to dawn, Bloc Party has probably forgotten their latest rule, but just before they head onstage at the Paradiso, they participate in a four-way hug.