It’s
been just over a year since The National’s elegant, leathery slice of literate
American melancholy, ‘Alligator’, stole our heart and kept it locked in a lined
box like a precious keepsake, where it remains. There is nothing like the luxury
of becoming entwined in the vividness of somebody else’s fraught expression. In
the 14 months that have followed we’ve watched them gain friends and graduate
through venues, climbing modest rungs on the capacity ladder, with a certain heaping
of pride. We’ve been fascinated by their live performances, which are like watching
a tangled thread tugged and gradually unwinding. They’ve appeared uneven and frayed,
but always come good in the end, held together by a sibling (actual and metaphorical)
gravity. They felt like a little-shared secret this time last year, and
so it was with excitement and interest that we greeted news they were to play
some of the country’s grander mid-sized venues in the shadow of Editors, and round
things off rather extravagantly with a headline show at Camden’s Koko theatre.
Their wordy, unassuming and almost apologetic nature seemed at home in venues
that were not much more than a bar-room, a setting where confession is but a double
chaser away, yet there was always that maturity of sound that surely craved a
large dark cavern to fill. As they step out on stage at Brixton Academy,
fan into position and fall straight into the dense melodic drizzle of ‘Secret
Meeting’, this becomes a conjecture underlined. The extra space between them and
the expanses of darkness really suit the considered Smog-esque solitude that gives
them creative nourishment. The success of their performances doesn’t so much rely
on the physical exchange of emotions between players, seeing the whites of each
other’s eyes is not a requirement, but rather separate voyages of contained discovery
that take place simultaneously. Led of course by Matt Beringer’s honest, imaginative,
spread of fiction, non-fiction and the bleed between – he’s an overflowing introvert
with an extrovert wrenching its way out, and that inner-contradiction can pull
some bewitching shapes. It’s a style that keeps them in focus while playing
to a largely unsympathetic crowd, like they’re sealed away from the indifference.
The shaken-not-stirred Tom Petty does the Pixies homage ‘Mr November’ does send
ripples through the gathering hoards, but the chattering treatment doled out to
a deathly delicate and eventually supernova ‘About Today’ seems confusingly callous.
Finishing with the lesser known bold quake beats of ‘Available’ is a smart move
though, taking the attention of the room hostage with unusually firm hands. Yes.
Applause. If the partisan throng needed more convincing they get it later as Tom
from Editors pays a heartfelt tribute, confessing that on booking the band he
prepared himself for disappointment, yet had his heart torn out of his chest each
and every night. Perhaps it’s lucky then that he couldn’t be there the following
night. He may not have stood the intrusive depth of surgery. Koko doesn’t
render the other shows obsolete, perhaps they have seemed more intriguingly unscripted
previously, but it feels like everything’s been leading to this point. We’re told
this is the most people they’ve ever played to off the back of their name alone.
We feel privileged to be a part of that, to be entwined in a lacing of celebration
and shared expression the crackles readily through the expectant air. And it seems
to afford the band a dose of confidence, enhancing their introspection, giving
rise to a strong, fluid set with its resulting haul of vocal adoration relying
on little more than the fact that they and it just exists before our eyes and
that they and it are magnificent, as hoped. Because with a band like The National
it’s not them we necessarily crave – look at them, how could it be? – but what
they are sometimes (and at an ever increasing rate) capable of becoming or trying
to be. Aside from peeling out the majority of the mighty ‘Alligator’ and
‘Cherry Tree’, alongside choice cuts from ‘Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers’ in a richly
laden set, there is also a strong a hint that their creative ascent will not likely
be curtailed any time soon. ‘Kingmaker’, given a bright and impressive airing
both nights, surges along like The Shins dressing up Joy Division and making them
beam with the wired joy of early James. It’s certainly the catchiest few minutes
they’ve been responsible for yet. And then for a polar opposite, the encore at
Koko sees the solemn, deep, disparately sparse march of ‘You’re Gonna Start A
War’ unveiled, carefully, slowly. They are exactly the sort of band we
want and need right now. The sort of band that has been allowed to find its niche
and its strength, the sort of band that has had the time to arrive at a quality
plateau without prematurely blowing a gasket. And the sort of band we’ve been
allowed to discover, especially in these days of instant gratification vs. intravenous
drip. So tonight feels all the more precious without the commanding presence of
radio airplay or magazine covers or deafening endorsements, and because people
have found their own way here. And they’re not quite perfect, although they nudge
a fraction closer with each passing visit. They do falter from time to time. And
it feels better to be able to pick them up when they do, just like they do for
you. Relevant sites:
www.americanmary.com
James Berry for Crud Magazine 2006© |
