Happy 15th Anniversary to The National’s third studio album Alligator, originally released April 12, 2005.
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Ask me which album by The National I love the most and my answer never wavers. From the beginning, it’s always been Alligator. I’d be lying though if I said I was instantly smitten.
Instead, The National’s third album burrowed into my brain imperceptibly. The fact I purchased it at all was sheer serendipity—an insomniac decision spurred by a smartly penned Insound teaser. At the time, I knew nothing of the Cincinnati-bred, Brooklyn-dwelling five-piece nor that this darling album would catalyze a lifelong affair.
But, looking back, I must’ve intuited something from those early clues. Or, maybe it was just a shallow call. The black, white and neon green cover, adorned with retro font and blurred face and chandelier, compelled me. And the fact it was released via Beggars Banquet—the British label home to Bauhaus and The Charlatans—didn’t hurt either.
I don’t recall tucking Alligator into my CD player or transferring it to my iPod. Rather, over the course of that summer, I remember lyrics and bits of instrumentation cropping up randomly throughout the day, surfacing like secret gifts from my subconscious. I’d be at my computer typing and find myself tracing alien phrases (“I wake up without warning / And go flying around the house”) or sitting with a friend at a bar and faintly hear strange declarations (“We’re the heirs to the glimmering world”). Or, I’d be out walking and searching for the bass line from the night before. Surely, the evidence was gathering.
And suddenly, falling prey to its furtive charms, I’d started stalking Alligator in my mind. Those manifestations creeping into my brain were The National at work, four years after their debut—with brothers Bryan (drummer) and Scott Devendorf (bassist) providing the rhythmic backbone, brothers Aaron and Bryce Dessner both playing guitar, lyricist and singer Matt Berninger crafting the verses and honorary sixth member Padma Newsome orchestrating. Yes, Alligator is the resplendent display of a band stepping into their own. And, I was fortunate enough to watch the spectacle unfold firsthand.
One night in early October 2005, I saw The National play at San Francisco’s Mezzanine, a venue just a couple of blocks from my Mission Street apartment. Opening act Clap Your Hands Say Yeah had drawn a full house, but the crowds had dwindled by the time The National took the stage. So, in a vodka-laced spell, I inched closer and closer. The world fell away, and I twirled in dreamy orbit, with The National pulsing at my center. As the tall waifish singer crooned, “We’re out looking for astronauts, looking for astronauts,” I wondered, who is this mysterious band, and why on earth had I not found them sooner?
The show was long over before I pried myself away, fully transported and not wanting to come down. Fifteen years later, I don’t even have to close my eyes to replay the memory. Every delicious goose bump perks right back up. Thank you so much, dear band. So many emotions fade with time, but my connection with you remains steadfast. Cheesy as it is to say, I’m so grateful I still feel the feeling.
Life shuttled on, and a couple months after that luminous night, I moved from sleepy San Francisco to numinous New York City. As I acclimated to the delectable metropolis, basking in my first-ever blizzard and enjoying my first real bagel (see ya, Noah’s), I found myself careening across the whole of Manhattan (and sometimes Brooklyn) in a fantastic tizzy with kindred spirit Alligator at my side.
Now, to be candid, I didn’t actually play the record as I scampered about town. In fact, for the four years I lived in NYC and the many trips I’ve taken there since, I rarely listened to music while combing its streets. I’m mesmerized enough by the architecture, people and whirring energy. Throwing music into the on-the-go equation would’ve greatly diminished my chance of survival.
Still, I’d oft commiserate with my knowing friend, etching lyrics into the East River air. Or better yet, discovering the never-ending city through National shows at NYC’s finest venues—all the while flailing with heartful abandon (“lit up…I try to untie Manhattan”).
For the 15 years I’ve described Alligator, I’ve referred to it endearingly as my nocturnal partner in crime. And, its perfectly unpolished, prowling ways surely speak to my impish, though latent, barrel-into-the-night-sky tendencies. But, it would be reductive to suggest that this 13-song opus is all carefree catharsis.
In fact, its pensive nature reveals itself from the beginning. Peering into the doorway of Alligator, we enter “Secret Meeting,” smack-dab into conversation: “I think this place is full of spies / I think they’re onto me / Didn’t anybody, didn’t anybody tell you / Didn’t anybody tell you how to gracefully disappear in a room.”
At first, it appears the narrator is talking to someone else, but actually, he’s invited us into the “secret meeting in the basement of [his] brain,” where the opposing sides of the neurosis are playing themselves out. He feels a pull to be social at this event he’s dutifully entered into, but his introverted self is shrinking further inward. Failing to reconcile the two, he claims, “And now, I’m sorry I missed you.” But, as any good introvert would tell you (myself happily included), he’s not sorry at all.
While exposing battles between oneself, “Secret Meeting” also introduces another current swimming throughout Alligator and the band’s oeuvre, in general—the railing against the banalities of adult life (“It went the dull and wicked ordinary way”).
The next track, “Karen,” continues to explore these sources of strife, adding in the element of a distinct other, Berninger’s wife (then girlfriend), Carin. Although he’s ostensibly pleading with her, he’s still caught up in his own thoughts, batting away demons (“I must be me, I’m in my head / Black birds are circling my bed”). Now, in his early 30s, the songwriter had watched the first glory years of his New York existence evaporate, living through the bursting of the dot-com bubble and the catastrophe of 9/11 firsthand. He feels lost in the “mechanical” routine and fights to be something more (“Karen, put me in a chair, fuck me and make me a drink / I’ve lost direction, and I’m past my peak / I’m telling you this isn’t me / No, this isn’t me / Karen, believe me, you just haven’t seen my good side yet”). In talking to his muse, he’s hoping to make his words real.
But, while pressing deeper into adulthood and bearing its burdens, Alligator hurtles us toward “Lit Up.” Buoyant and racing, galvanized by driving guitars, it’s a headlong spin showcasing the powerful art of delusion. Although aware of his lack of status, Berninger—reminding me vocally a bit of Neil Diamond here – fancies himself a hot shot strutting around Manhattan (“I’m in control and I believe / So lit up, lit up, lit up, lit up alright / I try to untie Manhattan”). The song is another willful mental act—one I think a lot of us can relate to. Aglow in the warmth of wine or whiskey, drinking in NYC’s iconic skyline, who hasn’t felt on top of the world?
If “Lit Up” is a titillating leap to the tops of skyscrapers, “Looking for Astronauts” propels us on a starry-eyed mission. Mischievous, wry and romantic (“You know you have a permanent piece / Of my medium-sized American heart”), it’s the perfect tune for that woozy walk home.
As we dip into the belly of Alligator, the mood turns melancholic again—and the darkness is delicious. Showcasing Berninger’s gift for vibrant verse, “Daughters of the Soho Riots” entwines velvety wordplay with sinuous guitarwork, making it one of the most stunning noir moments on Alligator.
The intricate harmonies continue with “Baby, We’ll Be Fine,” which settles back into the narrator’s practiced art of delusion. Absurdist and whimsical, the song toes the brink of madness elicited by corporate ennui. Reciting platitudes while donning a preppy sweater and peppy smile doesn’t disguise the fact that it’s all just an insipid, if suffocating, routine. The song ends with Berninger repeatedly wailing, “I’m so sorry for everything,” and though it seems like he’s apologizing to his significant other, it could very well be like “Secret Meeting,” with one side of the self communing with the other. Only here it’s a negotiation in futility. Run as we might, we all must face the inevitability of growing up.
Offering yet another window into the anxieties of adulthood is “Friend of Mine,” which lyrically centers on a close friend suffering from addiction who seems to have disappeared. For all its anguish and wide-armed caring, the song is deceptively playful, boasting an unexpected sing-along quality that is at odds with its heavy subject matter. Words, it seems, aren’t the only subterfuge.
The eighth track on Alligator is an anomaly of sorts. Not only is it the slowest and most orchestral, but it’s also the most solemn—a wake-up call heard too late. The title “Val Jester” is in homage to Berninger’s great uncle, who he holds in high esteem. And yet, the sentiments drip with admonition and regret. It’s a rare moment of reckoning on an album otherwise happy to indulge adolescent fantasies.
Lest we drift off into the doldrums, the album quickly reclaims its restless spirit and veers us into booming hubris. Touting the grandiose sense of invincibility we’re blessed with in youth, “All the Wine” unleashes an unstoppable parade of larger-than-life high school daydreams. But, for all its sauvignon-stoked bravado, the turbocharged song belies a sweetness. As “All the Wine” nears its end, the over-the-top party-for-one subsides and Berninger begins to catch his breath, giddily gushing, “I’m in a state / I’m in a state / Nothing can touch us, my love.”
The psychological tension set forth at the start of Alligator comes to a head in the effusive mania that is “Abel.” Just like “Secret Meeting,” we’re thrust right into the middle of the mind coming unhinged, only this time, there’s no feigned attempt at reconciliation. No, instead, Berninger celebrates the division, screaming “my mind's not right” over and over until the song explodes into euphoric release. I’ve listened to “Abel” more than any other song by The National simply because I crave its cathartic power—and, fortunately, its transformative effect never seems to fade.
Part of what makes Alligator so special is it doesn’t pretend to have answers. And maybe doesn’t even want them. It brings battles into light, but doesn’t force epiphanies or life-altering outcomes. And although it raises midlife conundrums, it delights in chasing youthful freedoms. In this pursuit, there dwells a reassuring measure of hope.
“The Geese of Beverly Road” recalls an evening in Ditmas Park in Brooklyn in which Berninger watched kids setting off car alarms. Similar to “Lit Up” and “All the Wine,” the beautifully crafted song captures the breezy feeling (“Hey, love, we'll get away with it / We'll run like we're awesome, totally genius / Hey, love, we'll get away with it / We'll run like we're awesome”). As adults, we ache for that ease—that enchanting universe without limits.
The hypnagogic penultimate track, “City Middle,” provides some of the strangest imagery on Alligator. But then, to be fair, throughout the song, Berninger himself admits he has “weird memories” before proceeding to recount them. Opaque and fuzzy, it’s another curious valentine on a record not shy to explore the different ways we love.
In a final act of perfection, Alligator closes with “Mr. November,” a rambunctious rallying cry that never fails to enthrall the masses. Raw, nervous energy gone supernova, the conclusion to this kinetic album is every bit as big and anthemic as you want it to be, encapsulating the escapist spirit of “Lit Up,” “All the Wine” and “Abel” and pushing it to its maximum. And by the time we get here, we’re more than happy to feed the fire (“I'm the new blue blood, I'm the great white hope / I'm the new blue blood / I won't fuck us over, I'm Mr. November / I'm Mr. November, I won't fuck us over”).
Alligator came to me when I was 27 years old and delivered me safely to New York City, where it remains, to this day, my scintillating sidekick in the electric night sky. I can’t imagine my time in Manhattan—or that period of my life—without it.
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