Alienation. Isolation. Failure. Three-piece suits. Not the traditional elements of an evening of rock and roll fun.
On paper, an evening in the company of The National's bleak sonic outlook appears to be about as entertaining as a night out with a small mound of salt. The reality, thankfully, is far different. Which is why last night's performance at the Orpheum, the first of two sold-out nights in Vancouver, saw the band rightfully welcomed like conquering heroes.
Technically, the Orpheum is an all-seated venue. That notion was dispelled a split-second after the lights dimmed to herald the band's entry, at which point roughly 200 eager (and adult) fans rushed the stage like a crowd of 11-year-old girls flocking to a rumoured Justin Bieber sighting.
This devotion was rewarded instantly. The stately, sedate pace of opening track "Runaway" was followed by a gentle acceleration in "Anyone's Ghost," which in turn led onto a masterful, full speed "Mistaken For Strangers." Not that a casual listener could ever mistake The National for The Ramones, mind you. But that increase in pace was mirrored with a building of intensity that stayed with the band for the duration of a set littered with moments of beauty and brilliance.
It's this unrelenting intensity that sets The National apart from their peers. That hard-to-define quality began with baritone vocalist Matt Berninger (the wearer of the aforementioned three-piece suit), who spent most of the show clutching to his mic stand like a drunk holding on to his last bottle, and the rest of the time pacing the stage like an expectant 1950s father waiting for news from the delivery room. The band's two guitarists, eerily identical twins Aaron and Bryce Dessner, were models of restrained concentration. Neither played solos in the traditional sense. Rather, one would surge to the front of the stage and endlessly hammer at one chord high up the fret board at songs' climaxes; axe-shredding egos sacrificed for the twin pillars of texture and emotion.
Of course, there is a marked difference in taking their music seriously (which The National clearly do) and taking themselves seriously. Berninger wasn't one for lengthy spiels between songs, but when he did chat, it was worth listening to. "Conversation 16" was dedication to "Bernie from Manchester," who was celebrating her birthday and used to let the band sleep in her basement. A semi-audible heckle, offering something along the lines of a hot tub orgy, was dismissed eloquently.
"I hate both of those things," smiled Berninger. "Both are equally awkward."
Berninger was routinely cheeky and charming when he wasn't singing. The moment the complex, hypnotic rhythms of Bryan Devendorf's drums started, that showman vanished. Instead Berninger was transported inside the music – the dissatisfaction and regrets of the songs' characters echoed in his performance, oblivious to the crowd while stalking the stage or singing into the wings, shaking his hands in frustration or throwing the mic stand to the floor with petulant, impotent rage.
A show built on raw emotion built to a worthy finale in the encore as Berninger screamed out the multiple f-bombs of "Mr November," before leaving the stage entirely to perform "Terrible Love" from the crowd, wading through fans and clamouring over seats on a seemingly aimless meander across the Orpheum's auditorium floor. Just when things couldn't get wilder, the band brought proceedings to an unpredictably positive finish with an acoustic and unmic'ed "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks," the crowd dutifully and tunefully singing every word back at choir leader Berninger.
In terms of a fun night out, it was a weird one. In terms of an artistic statement, it was close to a masterpiece.
The National play The Orpheum in Vancouver Tuesday evening.
