Someone should tell Interpol frontman Paul Banks that one self-indulgent solo album is forgivable, but two is really pushing it. Not every lead singer is a Jónsi or a Jack White, and while there’s no shame in that, the public can only put up with so much. But with Interpol on an indefinite hiatus, a guy’s got to do something to fill the days, and Banks has been keeping busy. He’s toyed with a couple of alter egos—his first solo effort, “Julian Plenti is… Skyscraper” was released under that moniker, and he’s also pursued hip-hop as DJ Fancypants. Given the utter what-the-fuck-ness of his chosen aliases, it’s a relief to find him at last working under his own name, with an album title that’s gorgeous in its simplicity—Banks.

Banks sets out to show what he can do without Interpol holding him back, but he can’t seem to resist heavy-handed efforts to distance himself from his former outfit. Single “The Base” is crowded full of weedy strings and scanty synths in what seems to be an effort to camouflage the fact that it’s not much of a song at all. This is the album’s most inexcusable blunder—there’s a lot of gloss, but tunes are few and far between. There are no catchy hooks and no killer Carlos D bass lines that just won’t quit, and almost tragically, the best tracks are the ones that sound like Interpol. “Paid for That” is a delicious blast from the past. The arrangement is crisp and fairly minimal, and the song is actually catchy. It bears hints of the glorious Interpol rhythm section; you could almost swear that it’s Sam Fogarino sitting behind the kit. Closer “Summertime is Coming” is another high—the track would sound right at home on Interpol’s third album, Our Love to Admire.

Unfortunately, the low points outweigh the high. Banks’ lyrics, which have always ranged from head scratching-ly abstruse (“We spies, we slow hands/You put the weights all around yourself”), to actively painful (“I feel like love is in the kitchen with a culinary eye/I think he’s making something special and I’m smart enough to try”), to outright hilarious (“There’s no ‘I’ in ‘threesome’”), show few signs of improvement. But at this point in his career, anything less would be a little disappointing. Bon mots like “Here comes the dolphin times, I don’t call them filthy,” are guaranteed to trigger nostalgia in any hardcore Interpol fan. “I’ll Sue You” is an ode to litigiousness, which isn’t a good look on rockstars—just ask Metallica.

All this isn’t to say that “Banks” is a terrible album; from another artist it could be perfectly serviceable. But Paul Banks will never shake the very long shadow of the Interpol glory days. He’s fighting the good fight but forever losing traction. With this effort, Banks emerges as a musician of a certain age trying to sidestep ever-encroaching irrelevance. Does he pull it off? On this album, it seems not.