The National – Boxer

by Vinh on December 13th, 2008

The National - Boxer
May 22nd, 2007
Beggars Banquet
Score: 9.1

You’re pink, you’re young, you’re middle-class
They say it doesn’t matter
Fifteen blue shirts and womanly hands
You’re shooting up the ladder

Reaching for the skies when standing on your own two feet should suffice, you work toward goals you had never set out to accomplish. You ogle that corner office, bemoaning it one moment and longing for it the next. So stay inside until somebody finds you. Do whatever the tv tells you. Sleep in your clothes and wait for winter to leave. You’re getting tied. You’re forgetting why.

Boasting somber, slow-peeling arrangements, The National captures the blurry fleeting line between our wants and needs brilliantly on its fourth full-length, finally uncovering its niche on this gorgeous ode to the disenchanted work force. The most immediately distinctive facet of this New York troupe is that resonant voice. Hints of Lou Reed, Leonard Cohen, and Stuart Staples (of Tindersticks) can be detected within Matt Berninger’s timbre as he speaks of blindfolded men being carried through trees with the nonchalance of someone merely describing their day. His understated, woozy maundering manages to convey greater punch than effusive belters ever could. In Berninger, The National is fronted by one of the most compelling voices in rock music. It just isn’t always on display in the band’s previous work. While 2005’s Alligator is riveting at times, the occasionally raucous approach does not complement what Berninger brings to the table. And when you’ve got such a sensational talent at the helm, not taking full advantage is absurd.

The National commits no such blunders on this release. Every song on Boxer is an absolute gem which, while capable of standing on its own, serves as a chapter in one continuous, fluid tale; a bridge from one dissected moment to the next.

The band emerges with richer textures which accompany Berninger’s engrossing croon far more adequately this time around. The piano, organ, trombone, trumpet, bassoon, cello, viola, violin, clarinet, flute, and french horn round out the band’s arsenal as Boxer takes listeners on a late-night stroll by vacant stores and deserted city streets. At first glance, this may seem overwhelming but the influx of new instruments perfectly adorns the baritone vocals without ever eclipsing them. The piano in particular is key in this outing, providing both solemn spires (‘Racing Like A Pro’) and gossamer grace (‘Gospel’) to the affair. However, Boxer never becomes grandiose nor does it ever transgress its prevailing message, which is one of personal ennui and drab day-to-day routine.

Sometimes you go la di da di da di da da
Until your eyes roll back into your head

On the lyrical plane, Berninger paints a muddled portrait of urban despair and the tedium of professional life. The dreariness of coming into work every morning, endlessly typing away, caged in a cubicle, juggling deadlines, sitting through the most mundane of meetings. This is the bitter reality of a desk job and it is tackled on ‘Squalor Victoria’: “Underline everything, I’m a professional in my beloved white shirt.” The grim mantra gains traction as it chugs along with relentless, massive percussion and hypnotic keys glaring at us as if to wonder “Why are you here?” It knows. It knows that this isn’t for us, that we want out. It sees the birds up our sleeves begging to be set free. Then all of a sudden, everything ends on an emphatic, disconcerting note. “This isn’t working, you middlebrow fuck-up.”

While detachment from the go-getting, torrid pace of city life is certainly not novel territory, Berninger’s attempts to reconcile his plight consume us whole. Perhaps this is due to him not grasping at straws but reality. He does not pine for a magical solution to his woes. He states what we refuse to acknowledge, that we’ve settled for so little, that the vie en rose we’d envisioned has been reduced to fuzz we can’t inhabit for any extended period of time. Because persistence is a virtue held in high regard, we turn a blind eye to truth. We button our blue blazers. As life hands us lemons and we extract its content, we realize this elixir seldom suffices. Therefore, we “put a little something in our lemonade”. We skew the status quo out of convenience. Out of fear. We tiptoe through this shiny city for steady footing would reveal a devastating predicament. Our jobs drain our spirit, our support systems have crumbled, our intimate relationships have degenerated into throwing money at each other and crying.

One time you were a glowing young ruffian
Oh my god, it was a million years ago

On the other side of the coin is ‘Slow Show’ which depicts a man coping with his hardship, aspiring only to please his better half amidst the dread. She’s the solace he clings to, the figurative coffee break that renders hours of thankless work worthwhile. And thankless it is as he perpetually performs menial tasks, leaning on walls which lean away, losing everything he loves in drawers. All for the increasingly silly purpose of stepping into the winners’ circle. The narrator’s candor is startling as he pines for “a moment of not being nervous and not thinking of my dick” before finally reaching the conclusion that he’s uncovered what he’s needed all along. “You know I dreamed about you for twenty-nine years before I saw you”. Bryan Devendorf’s cascading drums are pivotal once more, acting as the impetus pushing our protagonist home. They eventually halt as Berninger reaches his doorstep, giving way to delicate piano keys which flutter to the ground with the weightlessness of rose petals showing our everyman the way. Penning such vivid vignettes while offering the latitude necessary for interpretation, Berninger is either a true poet or a man whose musings are woefully scatterbrained. Perhaps both — and one couldn’t blame him. At this point, it has become inconsequential to the journey.

The National’s latest effort defies all that “indie” has come to embody. No synthesized blips, no curveballs for the sake of diversity, no token instrumental track, no pretension. Only twelve numbers that come together to form a wistful, cohesive unit, an exceptional marriage of orchestral composition and modern rock ‘n’ roll.

This is growing while having no desire to. This is nostalgia in a 3-piece suit. This is that chasm, that abyss that divides providing for yourself and being provided for. This is leaving those who provided for you. This is their dream come true. This is becoming someone. This is making it. This is loathing the vehicle you drive, the job you’ve slaved for, the path you chose. This is lack of direction. This is settling down. This is compromise. This is pining for the past. This is regret. This is not teetering over lines but being trapped between them. This is working class prose. This is vague aspirations becoming utmost priorities. This is complacency. This is living your life half awake in a fake empire. This is the whisper of a trumpet amidst a crowd. This is restlessness. This is the life of a professional. This has never sounded so good.

Vinh Cao

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