Song of the day

The first song of the day in over a week I believe, is Prison Is Private Property by Rocky Votolato.

You Wouldn't Want An Angel Watching You. Surprise, Surprise, They Wouldn't Want To Watch

Here is the first single off Boxer, Mistaken For Strangers.

The National- Boxer

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

Marked by the notion that we are aimlessly going through the motions, young adulthood can be downright dreadful. 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.

This is all too familiar to The National, who captures these fleeting wants and needs brilliantly on its latest opus Boxer. Boasting brooding orchestral arrangements, the band finally uncovers its sonic niche on this gorgeous ode to the disenchanted work force.

The most immediately distinctive facet of this New York troupe is the vocals. 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. In Berninger, The National is fronted by one of the most compelling voices in rock music. It just wasn't always on display in the band's previous work. While 2005's Alligator is interesting at times, the occasionally raucous approach did not complement what Berninger brought 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; 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 picture of urban despair. Detailing the tedium of professional life while offering the latitude necessary for interpretation, Berninger is either a true poet or a bumbling fool who can't string a coherent thought together. 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. A flawless marriage of orchestral composition and modern rock.

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

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.
9.1/10