Of all the aggressively dour indie rock bands around (and there are plenty), the National might be the least solitary. Which is not to say that they’re some copycat, because I don’t need to tell you that there are way too many Joy Division and Cure clones out there, but rather that their murky blend of substantive drama, atmospheric fills, prickly longing, and bursts of highlighter expression sort of lumps them into a kind of mission statement purgatory where they simply revel in being themselves—which is great, so long as you find falling short to be a virtue. If for nothing else, rarely will you hear a band so ruthlessly confident in their sheepish misery.
Less rare in their efforts-supreme is the evidence that they’ve maneuvered for transcendence. Few groups succeed at the grandiose, eternally (and uncompromisingly) conceited endeavor, and most of those who do find ways to flop as frequently as they triumph (a little band from Dublin certainly springs to mind). And sure enough, there’s more than a little U2 in the National’s latest morose offering called High Violet. There’s a slathering of the aforementioned Joy Division and Cure, too, if you care, as well as post-Britpop atmosphere (the likes of Chris Potter and Steve Osborne would be so proud), the swelling majesty of Band of Horses, and the sinuously sinister edge of Nick Cave. Cave’s raw, husky bluntness is missing in frontman Matt Berninger’s voice; while the baritone is technically strong and suitable for some of the more watery and melodramatic material, the long haul stretch reveals it ultimately as a debit.
Most distracting to the supposed naivety inherent in the “Hopeless Majestic” frame is that the National are more inward, funereal and intimate than is fitting for a style aimed towards the act of graduating baroque to stadium-size theater (which, I suppose, is what sets them apart from the flock the most). At arms length, I can’t help but wonder how it could possibly work well in practice. On the other hand, in their transparent reach for that great transcendence, they do manage moroseness en masse that seeps warmly instead of oppressively—no matter the mopiness/dopiness, it’s still an album one can embrace. In other words, they wear their bleeding hearts on their sleeves.
I can’t decide which is more (or less) forgivable: a widespread dedication to heavily emotive inscrutability or a lack of tunes that “stick to the ribs,” so to speak. The National is guilty of both “crimes,” but a merciful listener might overlook both. The first four numbers are lush, grim, stately and ornate—strange places for a rock band to traverse—but ultimately evaporate in the aftermath. Right off the bat on “Terrible Love,” Berninger warbles repetitively like a mantra about how, “It’s a terrible love and I’m walking with spiders,” and that, “It takes an ocean not to break company.” Folks like Robert Smith and Morrissey are better salesmen for that kind of wobbly sentiment, and being placed over a building swirl of minor keys and humming guitars doesn’t help the product-push any. It’s meticulously arranged, to be sure, and I applaud them for not striving for a major cathartic release after all that build-up, but it’s ultimately defeated by the absence of payoff beyond locomotive drumbeats, bass echoes and Edge-like twining for ten more modest minutes across fine but forgettable diversions like “Sorrow” and “Little Faith.”
It’s the fifth cut, “Afraid of Everyone,” that finally emerges as something memorable. Typical of this collection (and past National efforts), the words ring a little hollow in cryptic references to blue bodies, orange umbrellas and red violets, but the momentous build in tempo and severity trumps even that of “Terrible Love.” And instead of being treated to negated but pleasant tangents afterward, it springs right into the power rock rhythm of “Bloodbuzz Ohio.” Serving as the obvious album centerpiece, “Bloodbuzz” unspools with dense clarity and unshakable velocity, like TV on the Radio’s “Halfway Home” or Handsome Furs’ “Radio Kaliningrad.” Berninger dips at least another half octave here—it could almost be an impersonation cum tribute to Cave—and has an easier time selling lines about being “carried to Ohio in a swarm of bees.” Helpfully, the refrain slogan, “I still owe money to the money, to the money I owe,” balances a certain timely financial frustration with the “you can never go home again” mindset. Sure, that goodwill is spoiled by the next song’s puzzling declaration that, “You and your sister live in a Lemonworld,” and the tepid babbling brook ballad “Runaway,” but a catchy tune is a catchy tune.
Also catchy is another big, bold arena-built tune called “England,” which almost oversells its histrionic hand, but “Afraid of the house/Stay the night with the sinners/Afraid of the house/Cuz they’re desperate to entertain” is easy to chant guilt-free. Less so is the ethereal but limp closer, “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks,” which goes a step further into the enigmatic territory—instead of simply being as cloudy as the arrangements, now these guys are just being curt and hollow. It doesn’t suit the National to wait to the end to overtly sound like another group like this, and it’s tough to copy My Morning Jacket without sounding like, erm, bad My Morning Jacket.
High Violet is not terribly exciting, it’s nothing particularly revelatory, it doesn’t induce a lot of critical thought, and I was rarely swept up by all its heartfelt drama, so does it get a pass for its ambition? Its strong technical craft? Its assured and scrupulous presentation? Or do I simply recognize its appeal even if it’s not for me? If you enjoyed Alligator and Boxer, this will be right up your alley, but if you, like me, were hoping for more delivery on the promises made by their last two fairly solid efforts, it might slip through your fingers. Despite the multitude of obvious (and admitted) influences and ancestors, the National boys kinda do their own thing, and if I ever do feel a need to get that specific fix, I know right where to go.
"High Violet" is on sale May 11, 2010 from 4AD.
