A band is never as exciting as in its opening moments – all the acceleration, the promise, the hunger and ambition of all the years leading up to that point. Only that’s not always true. Some bands start good and get better. The National are one of those bands, and they just got better, a whole load better in fact. That’s pretty good considering they’re the authors of 2003’s inimitably classy ‘Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers’ record. And who could have imagined that band getting any better? That album was hewn from the dusky blues that Bruce Springsteen made at his least arena-esque, that Nick Cave fashioned carefully in the shadows of his torn conscience, that Tindersticks delivered when hooked up to their sadness drip, which was of course always. That album had songs that beat beautiful strong heartbeats, and played like the narrator of a number of fraught, vivid, emotionally complex scenes.
This album is made from the same stuff, but even more so. This album has picked up the reigns itself . This album is much more lucid, like ‘Sad Songs…’ but with a dusty film peeled back to reveal a clearer clarity, a deeper warmth. It opens around you, offering roasted, juxtaposed layers of melody, take especially the subtle bubbling climax of ‘Secret Meeting’. There are no shortage of hypnotically descriptive words from the opening through to the closing, well assembled poetry that pulls you right in at ground level. When he talks of Karen in the song of the same name you feel like you at least know of her, you can see her face. Every word used is damningly effective, not least because every word is uttered by such a capable, authoritative voice that seems to be conveying complete experiences rather than telling stories.
Songs like ‘Lit Up’, ‘All The Wine’ and ‘Baby We’ll Be Fine’ tumble forward with earnest Americana’s necessary momentum and a whole lot more entwined that may not be necessary but defines them as a unique quality in this realm. They’re carried on by their own immense condensed weight, like a heavy wooden cart pushed over the peak of a hill, unable to fight the direction it’s inevitably heading in but not running away with itself due to the wheel’s tight creative grip on the pivot. The brilliant ‘Friend Of Mine’, ‘Abel’ and ‘Mr November’ though unveil the band at a new-found fire-breathing best, Matt Berniger barking like a scorned Black Francis and whipping the band up into playing not just harder, but with fuller passion. And as the atmospheric foil to the frantic ‘Abel’, ‘The Geese Of Beverley Road’ could be just about the most beautiful song they have ever written. Thing is, this album never gives the impression that it’s nuzzling at its limits. All we can say is that this is their best album, so far.