Here's the deal with The National: you either embrace "Mr. November" as a personal anthem and the rest of their catalog for its completely approachable and expertly helmed agenda in Almost Arena Rock, or you don't. You're either with Matt Berninger when he starts screaming as though he accidentally stepped on lit coals, or you're recoiling because you think the lead singer thrashing about up there is about to break his glasses in the middle of a seizure. You either keep tabs on who guitarist Aaron Dessner is working with this week (dude's an amiable producer whose credits include Sharon Van Etten's Tramp and Local Natives' Hummingbird in addition to the majority of The National's releases) or you get confused about which Dessner brother is the one who's making a guitar do very weird things for no explicable reason, 'cause there are two.
You're either a National fan or you're not. They're that polarizing, despite their wholly inoffensive contributions to the indie rock canon, and their Saturday Night Live debut was no exception.More »