I turned on the TV at 2am last night to catch the tail-end of The National playing Austin City Limits. If asked to describe their music--beyond the cursory genre categorization “indie rock”--I think the word that comes to mind is “depressive”. Lead singer Matt Berninger’s stage presence conveys discomfort, even anguish, as he hunches over the microphone, gazing at the floor. They introduce the next song “About Today” off the 2004 EP, Cherry Tree, by advising the audience that this would be a good time to cry. Their music seems invariably dark at times, as if their inspiration is only born of experiencing loneliness and anxiety. They are solemn and awkward, not here to party.
If we are friends then I have probably mentioned to you that The National is one of my very favorite bands. Yet I feel irresponsible saying that the music I love is defined exclusively by sadness, or that I buy into a romanticized vision of depression, because those things are not true. They make beautiful music and that is the why I choose to listen. The last song on the set is followed by an interview with Matt Berninger and another band member, where they addressed their reputation as being a “depressed group of guys”. They talked about the fun and catharsis of writing songs about sadness, about how deeply satisfying it feels. And I agree—there is something entirely excellent about acknowledging and expressing sadness. I have always thought that the discomfort and fear in their music does not eclipse the possibility for poetic expression and wholeness. I guess what I mean is, not everything that talks about sadness is here to make us sad. It can be comforting too.
My most vivid memory of last summer is this: sitting on a train in Germany, insanely jetlagged, watching the forests and countryside roll by, listening to the album Boxer on endless repeat. I love everything they do, but this album has always been my favorite. It has a more acoustic sound than their most recent album, High Violet, and Matt Berninger’s deep voice resonates fantastically. It is slow, quiet music, but at the same time tense and high strung—perfect music for being far from home. It is hard me to describe what about Boxer appeals to me so deeply. I’ve never tried since I’ve always enjoyed my music tastes without question. Boxer makes sense to me. I guess it is equal parts appreciation of their art and relief at seeing a group of people who are not always comfortable and satisfied being terribly human for a living.
I spent more time than I should have staying up late and going for walks that summer, and I was never without my ipod. Sometimes I wasn’t in the mood for it, but mostly The National was exactly what I needed, so I was happy surprised to stumble on their familiar music in that moment of latenight solitude. The television sang, on low volume, "it takes an ocean not to break" over and over again, panning across a rapt audience.
