the heirs to the glimmering world

I was lucky enough to see one of my newest favorite bands, The National, this past Sunday at Webster Hall. I found them a few months ago doing a combo Google Search for "Leonard Cohen," "Tom Waits," and "Nick Cave." And up came a link to them. And despite their exquisitely tortured tunes, I don't necessarily see the meta-connection with that trio, having now become more familiar with their work--I'd be more likely to compare them to early mopey-Cure or (possibly) The Smiths, with some Joy Division thrown in, as sung by Nick Cave--I was immediately smitten. And I loved them even more for the crowd they produced--perhaps that had to do with its late Sunday evening start time, but whatever the reason, there were few attitudes, little, if any, ironic posing; their fans seem to be as all-encompassing as their music. And speaking of going out late on a school night, may I also add that, among the wonders of the evening was the fact that they went on only 6 minutes past the scheduled start time. And that has to be a NYC concert first. Bless them.

Originally from Ohio, The National formed in New York in the late 90s, that includes brothers Scott (guitar) and Bryan Devendorf (drums), Aaron (bass) and Bryce Dessner (guitar), and beautifully scruffy vocalist Matt Berninger. And after four albums in just five years (their Self-titled debut, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers, Cherry Tree, and Alligator), they have compiled quite a fine discography. With a sound that lurks somewhere in between alt-country-rock and British pop and lyrics that float eloquently from metaphorical to wry filth, they somehow manage to avoid the trap of many brooding indie bands by never falling to preachy self-consciousness. And not to ever take themselves too seriously, there is always a catchy up-beat tune (a la "Mr. November" or "Lit Up") to break up the melancholy of their more devastating pieces ("Val Jester," "Slipping Husband").

Live, they pull this emotional back-and-forth off effortlessly, so much so, you might wonder how they manage to contain those moments of primal energy within their dusty fatalism, but they do, beautifully. Happily, the set list included all of my favorites, including three of the four songs above, plus "City Middle," "The Geese of Beverly Road," "Secret Meeting," "Wasp Nest," and "Murder Me Rachel," among others. As the evening wound down, checking my watch in the hopes of getting home before turning into a pumpkin (at my advanced age, the time for that has been getting earlier and earlier), I crossed my fingers and mumble-pleaded for one more song. A specific one song, the one of theirs that has been added to my list of "utterly tragic" loves, "Daughters of the Soho Riots" (that link, and all other song title links, lead to the song online, but if you have OSX Panther, you can download this cool Widget, with "Daughters" plus two other great songs). And bless them again, they ended the evening with a rendition of that world-weary and heartbroken tune that was so beautiful the sentimental dope in me (another side-effect of old age) had tears in her eyes. Sigh.

On a lighter note, my partner in crime that evening, ms. jessimae (the fabulous and lovely wife of Mr. McGregor's bass player/singer) were tickled and amused by the opening act--who we finally decided was, if not entirely serious, was entirely certain of his convictions--Baby Dayliner (aka Ethan Marunas)--in fact, even his fans aren't entirely sure. I find CD Baby's description of him rather interesting (you can listen to more music here, too), if possibly off-target ... "Brooklyn's Baby Dayliner is upbeat, joyous, earnest, and romantic, all at once. He combines Leonard Cohen's songcraft [okay, this I don't see at all, and I can find Cohen in just about anything. - vod], the electronic pulse of New Order, and the jiggy performance style of Al Green." Frankly, I can only giggle at the memory of him on stage; tall and lanky--a cross between Morrissey and Footloose-era Kevin Bacon (with better hair than both ...), we were thinking more Simply Red-ilk. The two of us spent much of his performance peering at each other from the corners of our eyes not sure whether we were actually supposed to be giggling. No, not really sure at all (a line of lyrics "my heart is a homey," [really] had us both practically on the floor, not least of which because of his sincerity at uttering it.), but a few giggles is never a bad thing while waiting for the main act to go on.