Alligator
Imagine American
Music Club after a venti mochachino and you pretty much
have The National pegged. That's not to say this album is in
any way spazzy. In fact, it's extremely controlled--almost to
a fault. The lead singer's voice churns, just one eek higher
than Calvin Johnson's grumbling
baritone. He is sometimes joined by a female vocal that at least
keeps the album from sounding like it's stuck in the swamp.
While the album is far from unpleasant, with its Americana,
folksy lilt, I can't help but feel like I have enough "wallpaper"
albums that make this just another in a faceless stack. |
Boxer
|
High Violet
Namechecked by every aging hipster on earth,
The National have become the rock band even your 28-year-old
friend might like if pre-disposed to melancholy indie rock music.
Less experimental than Spoon, more
adult contemporary than Band of
Horses, these guys live not by the hook on this album but
on pure reverb-y atmosphere. The issue here, at least for me,
is that, like a gray overcast day, there is no light and shade
and interplay of shadows but rather one flat complexion of midtmepo
wash. One spot on the sidewalk looks and sounds just like every
spot. Being blanketed in lead singer, Matt Berninger’s, baritone
and his really downcast lyrics brings to mind a slightly up-tempo
Mark Lanegan album. The issue
is that Mark is a whiskey-soaked craggy crooner who has done
nothing but that kind of music since Screaming
Trees, but The National are only one album removed from
Boxer, an album filled with gnarly drums and some actual
song variation (some even with hooks!) So my question is: what
the hell happened to these guys since their last album to make
them so amazingly depressed and mid-tempo?
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