The hurricane of fellatiatic adoration bestowed upon the proud sad sacks of The National is astonishing, simply because it's almost entirely undeserved. They're hailed as masters of the shoegaze, sleepytime champions of post-emo dumpiness. But just because they aren't screaming their teenage woes or actually singing about cutting themselves, just because singer Matt Berninger's record collection is heavier on Joy Division and Nick Cave than Dashboard Confessional and The Cure, that doesn't mean they've achieved respectability by default.
There are moments of beauty, but ultimately, in a word, High Violet is simply meandering, like Spoon and Coldplay took a Tic-Tac case full of Xanax and made an album overnight. That's not a good thing. "Sorrow" is a droning stroll through a cloudy hillside, Berninger's monotonous baritone delivery coming off like he's trying to imitate Death In June. It strives for - and to an extent, achieves - a certain color-by-numbers indie darkness, the pinnacle of what the artsier pre-teens dream about in the backseat of mom's car on the way home from Hot Topic, glazing over in a pixie-dust comedown haze while the streetlights flash by in the night.
Berninger hits a good stride on "Lemonworld," adding just enough color to the palette to be - dare I say it - even catchy. The magnetism carries over to lumbering, somber sunset ballad "Runaway," but the song simply doesn't travel far down the dirt road.
In fact, that's mostly the problem with all of High Violet. There's simply not enough color, even in the darker tones. It holds appeal for post-goth thirtysomethings who feel just a little strange going the full Cure these days when they're feeling nostalgic for the ripped fishnet and magic-marker eyeliner, but how far does that take an album? When Beringer apologetically seduces with "I was afraid I'd eat your brains" in "Conversation 16," the Lugosi fanatics will undoubtedly join the church choir behind him. What does that count for?
Ultimately, High Violet is a dose of mediocre songwriting with admirable production and an '80s nostalgia that's, forgivably, not too heavy-handed. Bryan Devendorf's drum work is the album's entire adhesive, pulling the slow march along with a deliberate progression. "Bloodbuzz Ohio" is a fine example, with a solid 20 seconds of buoyant kit action before Berninger rolls in with the rainclouds and starts talking - yes, he's talking - about being "carried to Ohio by a swarm of bees."
The funeral drive of "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks" closes the National's fifth album, a slow-motion send-off with heavy-handed, bittersweet heartstring strumming. Would it fit in perfectly between Bon Iver and Sigur Ros? Sure, but so would the latest medicated Tori Amos disciple or, god forbid, How to Destroy Angels. The point is that The National aren't nearly worth the critic-darling status they've been given. They're interchangeable, unremarkable and nearly useless, unless you're bedding a gorgeous über-hipster and need an ethereal, yet downtrodden, soundtrack that's hip and current. In that case, all is forgiven.
