The Undisputeds: The National - Alligator

Welcome to a new column, The Undisputeds, where we'll be looking at our favorite albums of all time. In the interest of simultaneously broadening my horizons , I'll also be branching out and covering some records that are considered the best albums of all time, but that I'm relatively unfamiliar with, so expect reviews of Stevie Wonder and James Brown albums soon.

In the meantime, I thought we'd start with a tremendous album from Brooklyn-based indie rockers The National. Alligator was released in 2005 and marked the band's third studio album, and it also catapulted them into (relative) stardom. Following Alligator, the band headlined their first tour, and the follow up to this album, Boxer (2007), climbed to #68 on the Billboard charts and garnered the band mainstream exposure.

The National
Alligator
2005 Beggars Banquet

Alligator is an album with a memory. It's not a hazy memory; it doesn't speak in terms of those same rehashed teenage summers from long ago that many bands fall back on. Its nostalgia is poignant and direct, sharp and vivid. Alligator is a haunting and lonely record, but you're not alone when you're listening to it. Alligator shares its vividness and lucidness with the listener and invites them to create their own mental music video from their own memories. For that, it's one of the most engaging and oddly exciting records I've ever heard.

The opener, "Secret Meeting", sets the tremendous tone for the record. The arrangements on this song, like on most of the album, are conventional but nearly always beautiful. Everything fits together wonderfully. Nothing is ever forced on Alligator; words aren't pigeonholed, the timing's never off, one instrument isn't garnering all of the attention. Everything works.

"Karen", perhaps the album's best song, is punctuated by a slightly melancholic piano piece that echoes in the memory. "Karen" is one of those songs where you rewind to the beginning after the first two verses to hear them again, because they're so well done. The lyrics, about a quarreling couple who don't seem to like each other at all but depend on one another to stave off loneliness, are brilliant, touching, and reflective, like most of the record.

Alligator occasionally changes tones, but never direction. "Lit Up" evokes shades of early 80s post-punk bands with a more forceful guitar riff and chorus, and the album continues to bounce around in style without losing any of its focus.

The album is very good at conjuring up old flames, old places, old ways. But that's not the point. Alligator looks back, but it does it without remorse or regret. It doesn't dote; it just sees things for what they are (or were), collects itself, and moves on. Its songs are on the melancholy side, but there is genuine optimism on the record. Alligator takes the bittersweet angle, unashamedly thinking about the past while celebrating the unknown to come.

Despite the common mood the songs create, each is distinct. "Daughters of the SoHo Riots" is a slower tune with a soft piano accompaniment that moves along freely and easily. The album occasionally bursts forth with energy, as on "Baby, We'll Be Fine", without ever compromising its aura. Even when it's louder, it's still subdued.

"Baby, We'll Be Fine" is a mesmerizing song about a man trying to understand how to live the right way, and narrowing it down to "putting on an argyle sweater and putting on a smile". Guitar harmonies interact with violins to create an incredible and beautiful atmosphere that takes us into the mind of the protagonist.

Speaking of guitar harmonies, I've always felt that riffs are vital to an album's success, and the National's are so memorable, yet so unlike anything else I've heard. They're abrupt, unobtrusive, and layered, and create a unique but similar atmosphere around each of the songs. This isn't the ultra-catchy guitar part repeating over and over again (though, occasionally, that has its merits). This is more like an aural river that keeps flowing with the same steady calm, song after song.

The vocals are performed by Matt Berninger, and he is the pacesetter of the album. He's not a terribly exciting singer, and his baritone voice may take a bit of getting used to for new listeners. But his subdued tone fits in perfectly with the cheery melancholy of the music on the record.

"All The Wine" features a sunny guitar part that mimics the conceited lyrics, spoken from the point of view of a man who thinks he's the bee's knees ("I'm a festival, I'm a parade", he sings). "Abel" follows and lets loose a bit, again incorporating a touch of abrasiveness to the proceedings. Alligator is never thrown off a bit by this, and the different styles are incorporated seamlessly and for just the right length of time.

"The Geese of Beverly Road" opens with string and horns that evoke ambient artist Brian Eno's "The Big Ship", from his Another Green World album (which will turn up in this column sooner or later). It's such a perfect sound that it immediately painted a picture in my head of a fall cityscape. This morphs into more delicate, intertwining guitar work and yet another awesome song.

One of Alligator's strengths is its ability to look at grandiose things like love and life in unconventional ways. "City Middle" remembers an old lover through some odd things she once said. The album often takes this approach, using what seem to be very obtuse lines which in truth are remembrances of nuances and the little things in life. It's a very human record in this way, because we all remember people and places by things that wouldn't normally be memorable, and even we have no idea what makes them so. I've never heard a record evoke this spirit more easily.

The final song on Alligator is "Mr. November". The song is sung from the point of view of a faded high school football player. He discusses his faults and failures in life, and then achingly sings, "I used to be carried in the arms of cheerleaders". It's a great line in a great song, and sums up the mood of the album perfectly. We all look back sometimes and think of what might have been. That's normal. The trick is not to wallow in it like Mr. November does.

John Lacey