Why The National Aren’t the Miserable Bastards You Think They Are

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You can never be sad when you’re in a room that smells of chips. And this isn’t just any old room, it’s the Great Hall at Alexandra Palace. The site of many a gripping Antiques Roadshow valuation, it’s also where the psychedelic smackdown of 1967’s 14 Hour Technicolor Dream took place. The legendary night was attended by John and Yoko and headlined by Pink Floyd, who apparently played at sunrise, but nobody can be too sure, as everyone was beyond twatted.

Tonight though, it’s red wine and not acid that’s propelling the hilltop spot, as Brooklyn via Ohio melancholy merchants The National are gracing London’s loveliest larger venue. Known for their somewhat dour demeanor, the strong smell of chunky chips cuts through The National’s more despairing moments. The darkest of depressions have been lifted via lesser scents.

When you realise that The National are Interpol with a recently installed reclaimed AGA, things make a lot more sense. Sure, there’s that surface bleakness, the kind of all encompassing glumness that starts you sniffling about ex-lovers even though you’re definitely totally over it and haven’t casually internet stalked their various social networking pages in at least a month. Behind that though, is a mighty punk rock band slyly dressed as hip geography teachers. Tonight the breakdown towards the end of “Sea Of Love”, the rolling, clattering, harmonica battering mini-emo epic from their most recent album Trouble Will Find Me, is a case in point. Frontman Matt Berninger doubles over with a kind of madly twisted rage, yelping and howling like foxes do when they’re shagging outside your bedroom window at three in the morning. It’s caustic and utterly compelling, and makes you want to run around in some woods, possibly shirtless, definitely shoeless, but certainly not sit in your room bawling to Nick Drake and eating cold pizza.

(Via)

Matt goes and morphs into the GG Allin you could introduce your mum to during the encore’s “Terrible Love”, this time diving forcefully into the crowd. He’s swiftly swallowed up by the punters, drowned in a crowd of cable knit cardies and Aran jumpers sported by the most heavily bearded audience this side of the End of The Road festival. Yet despite the high volume of twiddly ‘taches and people wearing glasses who don’t necessarily need to be wearing glasses, huge swathes of the crowd are more laddy than a Danny Dyer fanclub meet-up – if such a thing exists, and I kind of hope that it does.

Throughout the evening there are blokey sing-alongs and manly shoulder grabs of the kind last spotted at the peak of Oasis and Verve mania. “Bloodbuzz Ohio” sees the stage bathed in a red lighting mist, whilst Tarantino-esque B-movie style blood spatters and static flickers across the massive video screens..

Though most of the crowd are die-hard National fans, as shown by the fact that almost every single one of the 7,000 here know all the words to acoustic final song “Vanderlyle Crybaby Cry”, tonight I’m with a National newbie. Initially her first concern is for the band’s propriety. “I’ve never seen a band with such loose jeans before,” she says. “I’m worried one of them’s going to get an erection and everyone will see it.” She then gets a bit confused as to why the cameras keep on focusing on the same guy over and over, and why and how he keeps on changing his outfit so much. When it’s pointed out that there are twins in the band – Aaron and Bryce Dessner – suddenly things click into place.

Further proof that The National are about more than the misery comes via the meditative "This Is The Last Time", which is basically a grown-up take on the Offspring’s "Self Esteem", minus the baggy Carhartt jeans and Volcom hoodies. In it, Matt sings in praise of mixing flu medicine Tylenol with beer, presumably to create a low-key version of sizzurp. Alright, so it’s probably not the combo of choice for the happiest of bunnies out there, but to see The National live is to know that their doom and gloom isn’t that doomy at all.

Follow Leonie on Twitter: @LeonieMayCooper

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