In a town where folks avoid wearing anything on their sleeves that might offer even the slightest peek at their frailties, frontman Matt Berninger staggers down side streets transcribing the language of his failed relationships. What separates him from the throngs of sadsack superstars and raises his personal pity party to a less solipsistic melancholy isn't necessarily his lyrics, his image, or even that he's not actually a superstar, but rather, his ability to implicate himself in the fray.
Since the National’s excellent self-titled debut in 2001, the Brooklyn-via-Cincinnati quintet has continued developing its hard-knock aesthetic, and lucky for the listener, Berninger’s relationships don’t appear to be getting any better. Bearing similarities to Revolutionary Road, Richard Yates’ classic critique of dreamless suburban emptiness, Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers lives up to its blunt title—Berninger’s moribund tales are shot through with the rich beauty of a rotten sky glanced on the way home from an argument, his self-effacing barbs matched by the band’s equally potent hooks. On the debut, Berninger was obsessed with nightingales, crows and rivers, and the vagaries of love’s beauty. Here he whispers more bird metaphors (cardinals, doves, and hawks) and intones about the vast loneliness of being stuck inside your head.
Though it sometimes lacks the soft intimacy and hidden corners of the debut song cycle, the addition of viola, violin, piano, keyboards, French horn, and Wilco-styled electronics creates a bed of complex undertones that opens up the overall sound. Mining a newfound raucous vein, “Available” and “Slipping Husband” rock heavier than anything the band’s released yet. “Available,” in particular, sounds more like something from the Interpol oeuvre than the National’s barroom Americana. Barking questions like “Did you clean yourself for me last night,” “Do you feel alone when I'm in my head?” and “Do you still feel clean when the only dirt is the dirt I left?” beneath a wall of darkly jagged guitar incisions, the song climaxes with Berninger losing his grip, screaming himself hoarse. He wonders repeatedly, “Why did you dress me down and liquor me up?” as his perfect pace and phrasing explodes into the caustic shouts and coughs of a man losing his shit in public.
The most beguiling tracks, though, remain the hazy ballads. “Cardinal Song” cradles Berninger’s advice to “Never tell the one you want that you do/Save it for the deathbed/When you know you kept her wanting you” in a bed of echoed arpeggios, twangy chords, hushed backup vocals, cymbal washes, and brushed drums. During a jarring tempo shift played-out over a growling bass rumble and beautiful violin part he finishes off, “Jesus Christ you have confused me/Cornered, wasted, blessed and used me/Forgive me, girls, I am confused/Stiff and pissed and lost and loose.” Similarly paced, “Patterns of Fairytales” introduces electronics and drum machines as the soundtrack for a character obsessing over the mixtapes he gave his old girlfriends: “I’m turning on the stereo/And I’m lining up the names/On the mixes I made before you/And I’m turning into fairytales/With glitter and some glue/Everything we ever planned to ever do.” The added bleeps, buzzes and quavering background sighs make it seem as though Berninger’s doing karaoke, adding his vocal swagger to these remnants of his failed seductions, trying to transpose himself into the love songs he wishes he’d written.
Each of the dozen laments on Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers balance catchy choruses, exquisite instrumental interludes, and the complex words of a man’s grieving. By the time you reach the final punch line of “Lucky You” you feel you know Berninger, want to offer him a coat, a smile, and some warmth to make it through another sleepless night. But on second thought, with that added comfort maybe he’d stop singing these beautiful songs: so you hold off, sit back down, and continue listening to this gorgeous train wreck.
