MetalJazz has no business writing about this band, so here goes.
Some dear to us enjoy the National, a melodic band of artistic American white men who attained semipopularity in postmillennial days. We saw them at the Hollywood Bowl in 2017 and liked their moody textures. Time to catch up.
We're told it's okay to call vocalist Matt Berninger the Accountant, not just because he acquired big spectacles (lenses ever thicker) after his early career, but because his now black-suited persona seethes with repressed desk-jockey turmoil. What his voice has lost in deep resonance it has gained in a casual way of talking a tune, his syllables locking instinctively with the busy, creative drumming of Bryan Devendorf -- this pair has magic. In addition to a couple of horn sidemen, multi-instrumentalists Aaron Dessner, Bryce Dessner and Scott Devendorf lend variety to a churny basic guitar sound that would otherwise come off as low-T U2.*
The National make a point of their nerdy weakling status -- strapping on a massive '70s Fender Telecaster bass, skinny guitarist Aaron Dessner goes so far as to complain about its weight. It contributes some temporary beef, though, within a mostly vegan soundscape that keeps shifting around within narrow dynamic parameters; the flashy, modernistic lighting makes for useful spectacle in contrast to the music's shades of gray.
For a non-acolyte spectator, the best part's the beginning, traditionally the location for the new material, which is what the Accountant clearly most enjoys singing. He tells the woman he wants to escape, and she doesn't know what he's thinking, and who keeps what plant and record, and this sure seems like Breakup Music (confessional or reportage?), so we're surprised toward concert's end when he thanks his wife of 20 years.
She deserves the gratitude, as we later hear the Accountant singing, "Don't you understand? Your mind is not your friend," which is about the most presumptuous, condescending thing you can say to anyone other than yourself, and the song's remaining lyrics indicate the message is outward bound. This happens around the time the Accountant starts appearing more like a Counselor, a job at which he does not excel.
Though the National's material wears somewhat samey through an hour and a half, the all-ages sold-out crowd sit in rapt devotion, emitting only a faint whiff of ganja. A pair of Koreans sing all the words. A Hollywood producer makes out with an actress half his age, just like yesteryear. Only one drunk is screaming as if it's an Aerosmith show; maybe he's a plant, because à la Steven Tyler, the Accountant, recognizing that the momentum has flagged, drags a 300-foot microphone cord right up the aisle to the lone dipso, curing lepers all the way. Impressive!
Ninety percent stay for the encore in the chilly night dankness, a sign that many want their particular kind of modern sadness validated. Matt Berninger will pull his hair a little, choke himself a little, tug his shirt, to let you know he feels your pain. He doesn't want to make you cry, though. No one needs to see that.
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*footnote: Would U2 hold any interest without Bono's testosterone? Or does the T just make them annoying? Subtract U2's T and what have you got? Gene Loves Jezebel -- a preferable band, some would argue.
PHOTO OF MATT BERNINGER SHOOTING ENERGY FROM HIS FOREHEAD IN AISLE OF GREEK THEATER BY FUZZY BAROQUE.