Cyborgs aren’t supposed to make mistakes. “Pioneer to the Falls,” tonight’s opening song (and the lead track off ­Interpol’s new album, Our Love to Admire), starts with a shiver-inducing guitar figure, and Daniel Kessler flubs one of the notes.

It’s an uncharacteristic error for a band whose perfectionist sound centers on a forbidding, architectural sense of order. Shrouded in darkness, their fitted formalwear glimpsed only in the stage’s roving searchlights, Interpol suddenly seem less like a gaggle of chic vampires than regular, if somberly attired, humans.

And right now these humans have entered a crucial moment in their burgeoning career: Their first two albums, released on an indie label, sold about half a million copies each and established Interpol as the leading incarnation of black-clad urban cool.

Our Love to Admire, their first disc for a major label, means to parlay that anti-­charisma into superstar sales. And it got off to an encouraging start: first-week sales of nearly 75,000. But as they face a diverse crowd who’ve come to see them in the pasty flesh, these unsmiling New Yorkers risk seeming a bit like, well, dicks.

Interpol aren’t the types to crack a self-deprecating joke after a screw-up — that would yank them out from behind the scrim of melodrama. The mystery lets fans project their own expectations onto the music, whether they’re standing rapt, as if awaiting condolences for a moribund love life, or dancing, arms aloft, with fellow sorority sisters.

The band sure doesn’t pander to the audience. Four well-received songs pass in all their bleak grandeur before frontman Paul Banks utters so much as a “thank you very much,” and at his most animated, he rubs the crown of his head, slowly, as if a rogue coconut just stunned him. The flashiest thing he does all night is strap on a Flying V guitar (finished in black).

Carlos D., whose facial hair resembles a train robber’s, stoops over his low-slung bass and stares downward, seemingly in search of a lost cuff link. Drummer Sam Fogarino isn’t just buttoned up — he wears a tie clip. Only Kessler seems to relish the stage, stepping to the edge and screwing up his face in concentration.

Properly presenting these songs requires focus: They’re crafted not only as impregnable monuments to brooding, but also as propulsive, pop-savvy dorm fodder. It’s a neat trick, and if the songs sound a little too alike, blame the richness of the formula: deliciously gloomy guitar riding a disco-wise wave of rhythm.

Supplemented with a minimalist LED light show, the set draws equally from three albums, and while the new tracks do justice to the ornate old theater — the suits of armor flanking the stage would make a fine tour prop — they sport less joie de vivre than early songs like “Say Hello to the Angels” and “Obstacle 1.”

Banks writes fragmentary musings on romantic ennui, and at times, his confessional hush comes close to a mumble. He’s like an overgrown teen, muttering under his breath and hiding behind a fringe of hair. (High school poetry like “You lack the things/To which I relate” doesn’t help.) And though the music sounds withdrawn, even Vulcan in its avoidance of emotion, the effect is surprisingly warm and cathartic: It sets off columns of dancing throughout the Fillmore, in everyone except the four band members.