Stories from the pit, Vol. 3

Falling out of love with The National

The Baton Rouge Advocate had moved into its new office tower, a fake pond away from a Target Supercenter and Motel 6. I was the editor of the weekly entertainment pullout. At a cubby desk in front of me, a colleague asked, “What are your favorite lyrics?” Without pause, I responded: “It’s a common fetish for a doting man/To ballerina on the coffee table, cock in hand.”

I was angry then. I’m assuming that Matt Berninger, The National’s singer, was also a bit angry when he wrote those lyrics for the song “Karen” from the band’s Alligator. That 2005 LP features some other anthems, or songs where Berninger shouts. I know that’s difficult to imagine if you’ve just hopped on the National’s bandwagon, fresh from the Eras tour.

On their second album of 2023, The National continues to parody itself with Mad Libs about living in a city high-rise. Any emotion or detail has been tossed aside for early 2000s adult contemporary that sounds like David Gray—a comparison that is now an insult to Gray, because at least that fucker wrote a chorus. However, even on earlier trips to sleepy adult contemporary land, the National would at least turn on a guitar amp, let the drummer show off (because he’s amazing), or write a fucking chorus.

Like the First Two Pages of Frankenstein, Laugh Track is the musical equivalent of drinking overpriced coffee in a newly-gentrified neighborhood. It’s as bland as it is disgusting in its attempts to convince you that it’s saying anything.

Some humanity comes on the final track, “Smoke Detector.” Things are weird. The drummer is actually playing. The guitars are present, and wait—is that distortion? It sounds like Berninger is wine-drunk. Used to be, we’d pay attention to him in this state. We were in awe of it. Nowadays, he’s no better than that prick he sang about on “Karen”.