The National
– High Violet
High Violet doesn’t shout—it haunts. It lingers in the corners of your mind like a half-finished conversation, picking at nerves you thought had settled. The National, always good at turning malaise into melody, go deeper here. This is the sound of trying to hold it together while everything gently falls apart. Matt Berninger’s baritone doesn’t so much sing as confess, mumble, and mutter through a landscape of anxiety, love, and self-sabotage.
Best of…
There’s a strange beauty in how heavy High Violet feels without relying on volume. The Dessner twins build dense arrangements that feel like they’re about to collapse under their own weight—guitars shimmer, pianos cry, horns moan. Bryan Devendorf’s drumming stays just behind the beat, like it’s stumbling home after one too many. Every song is tightly wound and emotionally frayed. It’s music for 3 a.m. subway rides and staring at ceiling fans.
But what really sticks is how High Violet makes the personal feel political without ever raising its voice. It’s not rallying cries—it’s the dread underneath. The tension between wanting to disappear and needing to be seen. The ache of trying to love while doubting your ability to be loved. This isn’t a band hitting a high note—it’s them finding the nerve, pressing down, and letting it hum.
Choice Tracks
Bloodbuzz Ohio
The closest thing this album has to a banger, but still thoroughly National. Devendorf’s rolling drums give it a pulse, but Berninger’s lines—”I still owe money to the money I owe”—are pure poetic anxiety. It barrels forward while looking backward.
Terrible Love
It opens the album in a haze—fuzzy guitars, crashing drums, and Berninger sounding like he’s drowning in his own head. It builds and builds but never really breaks. That restraint is the trick. You feel the pressure, not the release.
Lemonworld
Oddly hypnotic and bitterly funny. It plays like a dream half-remembered, sun-bleached and strange. “Lay me on the table, put flowers in my mouth.” Berninger’s surrealism is in full bloom here, and it’s weirdly comforting.
Afraid of Everyone
Dark, pulsing, and deeply paranoid. It’s the emotional centerpiece of the record, and maybe the thesis. The kids are growing up in a world of fear, and the grown-ups are barely faking it. Guitar lines twitch nervously while the song slowly boils over.
England
This one aches with grandeur. Piano swells, strings lift, and Matt croons like he’s pacing some lonely English estate. There’s a melancholy here that’s cinematic—lonely, yes, but somehow noble in its solitude.
High Violet doesn’t give you easy catharsis. It just lets you sit in the mess with good company. It’s a record that feels like it knows you, maybe a little too well. But you’ll keep it around anyway—somehow, its sadness feels like home.