Purple Prose for High Violet

Wednesday 05.12.2010 | 11:23 PM EST

Purple Prose for High Violet

The National: High Violet

Terrible Love

For the suburban teen, October is by far the cruelest month. Summer’s memory still lingers as the full force of winter fast approaches. Daylight Savings Time darkens the damp walk home from school. The teen-age mind summons dread against a backdrop of shadows and tall trees. So it was on October 1 1984, the day I walked home with a freshly pressed copy of U2′s The Unforgettable Fire.

As a feverish fan of the Irish band’s first three studio records, I could hardly contain my excitement as I lay fresh vinyl down on a shimmering platter, adjusted my headphones, finally settling on the warm dry carpet of my poster-plastered room. What I heard left me baffled. Confused. Entranced. This record sounded nothing like it’s predecessors. Gone was the brash attack of Steve Lillywhite’s production. In its stead Eno + Lanois treated us to a gauzy, dreamlike recording at once sleepy and crackling with energy. It was unlike any I’d ever heard, one of the first records I had to learn how to listen to. It took me months to finally fall prey to the hypnotic rhythms of “Elvis Presley and America”. But fall I did, hard.

On first listen, High Violet strongly invoked these memories. The National’s musical kinship with U2 is no revelation. But this is only a passing comparison. Over the course of ten years, the boys from Brooklyn have managed to craft records that at once embrace and belie their influences, establishing a truly distinctive voice. But why did their new record render such vivid recall of a 25-year old memory? Not because these recordings are necessarily comparable, but rather for the place they hold in each bands’ development.

Now let me be clear: I’m not making a grand statement about TN being the next U2. God I hope not. I wish the boys all the critical and financial success they deserve, save the lost anonymity, grandiose posturing and self-caricature U2 eventually suffered. But what I am saying is this: High Violet is TN’s farthest-reaching, best sounding effort. The leap in songwriting taken between Alligator and Boxer is now followed by one long, confident stride forward in the studio.

The record pulls off a difficult feat: make a big sound without over-reaching; make it pro without getting too slick. Luckily, the band’s past success has afforded them the means to build their own recording studio in Brooklyn, providing the freedom to further apply their studious natures to the recording process. The result is a painterly record at once muted and alive with the vibrant violet of its title. By the band’s own admission, National records don’t often come together until final mixing – but it’s evident they’ve employed this last process not as a patch for rough-hewn songs but as the final application of a finish that will weather the most repeated listening.

The 11 new tracks present themselves not so much as a group of tightly-knit individuals but as one fully matured identity–a singular 47-minute narrative densely layered with buried guitars and ghostly voices. Matt’s voice, once a shot of dry whisky, is now a sweet, dense port at once woozy and sure-footed. The backing vocals finally occupy the cathedral space denied them on past efforts. Strings and horns, by now a National staple, are mixed more subtly than “Fake Empire’s” bleating staccatos, playing more effectively as texture than orchestration. Drum tracks, dry and tribal, evoke the warm, muted sound of Unforgettable Fire’s title track and the gauzy, layered toms of “Elvis Presley In America”. Ever the master tailor (though not the snappiest dresser of the bunch), Bryan Devendorf’s intricate drum patterns are pushed to the foreground, stitching the whole elegant garment together.

Given the worldly tour schedule these guys maintain, it’s not suprising that this is the band’s least “American” record. Lyrically, the record is again infused with Berninger’s urbane East Coast pedigree – but on this go-round the narrative is decidedly more cosmopolitan. Flasks in pocket, High Violet’s characters shuttle from Ohio to New York, catch a red-eye to London and jet-lag it across the Thames just in time to perform impressionist Leonard Cohen spirituals and Robert Lowell paranoid confessionals. Whereas Alligator and Boxer’s young ruffians swamped and fought through material struggles, somnolence, fear and exhaustion pervade Matt’s new cast of characters. Each confronts its own demons in a space familiar to the chronic insomniac: that unrestful state between sleep and wakefulness where dreams become more disturbing than reality. “And I can’t fall asleep without a little help, it takes a while to settle down.” “Tired and wired” indeed, but on this outing exhaustion’s toll is less physical than psychological. Violet’s high is a woozy halcyon head trip, a semi-conscious dream state where all withheld fears, frustrations and aggressions finally manifest.

Boxer planted subtle hints to the band’s stance on fame’s conflicting terms–easy to embrace, much harder to endure. As they force your hand towards strangers, critical acclaim and commercial success breed an appetite for isolation. HV’s characters ache for safe haven from fear, debt and regret. Indeed, as “Green Gloves” called for absolution from neglected friends, “Anyone’s Ghost” confesses a sick day faked to avoid social obligation. “Afraid of Everyone” has it’s protagonist defending himself and his family from media exposure. “Bloodbuzz Ohio’s” swarm of bees confront the emotional and financial debt a life on the road can pile up: “I still owe money to the money to the money I owe. I never thought about love when I thought about home”. And, where in the past the glittering city was a place of wonder and bright lights, its streets now appear as a black dream of over-crowded urban landscapes from which to escape.

Sounds dark as all hell, don’t it? Not really. It’s meaner and denser that past releases, but definitely not a downer. The dark subject matter is buoyed by the band’s obvious relish in creating complex textures, melodies and rhythms. Like they said about The Smiths: sad songs for happy people.

Thankfully, the record is not without it’s flaws, without which the band would have no further destinations to explore. “Runaway,” borrows beautifully from Leonard Cohen’s “Winter Lady,” but the horn arrangements skirt a maudlin path. The waltz time dirge “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geek’” is at times painfully plodding. And most of the tracks are so similarly paced they can bleed together if you aren’t paying close attention.

Finally, by their own admission, the band’s one true failure was its attempt to “make a pop record” this time around. But who the hell wants that? Ok, so it might not be the most well-timed release to welcome spring back to New York. But these are trifles planted to defend against accusations of uncritical listening. Bottom line, High Violet is a gorgeous record that will likely leave you awestruck as a starry-eyed teen walking home from school.

And yes, it’s available on vinyl…

MAUNET

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