The National

Fashion credit:
Matt: Nice Collective military sweater available at Odin

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Your mind is racing like a pro now
Oh my god it doesn’t mean a lot to you
One time you were a glowing young ruffian
Oh my god it was a million years ago
— “Racing Like A Pro”

Trace back the roots of an indie-rock band far enough and you expect to wind up in a garage practice space, subterranean dance club, cluttered record store, hole-in-the-wall bar or—at the very least—a college dorm room. Where you don’t expect to land is a middle-school gymnasium in the suburbs of Cincinnati. But that’s where The National’s story begins.

The Dessner twins, Aaron and Bryce, were point guards on the middle-school basketball team, and Bryan Devendorf—well on the way to his current height of 6’6”—played center. But the guys weren’t merely interested in sports and had, separately, begun picking up instruments. During their freshman year of high school, a mutual friend suggested they start a band since he knew Bryan was playing drums and the twins were both playing guitar.

“So we started a band that played at all the parties,” Aaron recalls. “We basically played Grateful Dead and Allman Brothers covers, or we’d learn a fIREHOSE song or play a bad Pixies cover.” At the University of Cincinnati, Matt and Scott played in a band called Nancy until graduation, and then music was put on hold for several years as they moved to New York to pursue graphic-design careers. Aaron and Bryan eventually settled in New York as well. Over the next year and a half, the Devendorf brothers and Aaron created musical sketches that Matt would sing over.

Eventually the band worked up enough material that it made sense to record an album. The National’s self-titled debut came out in 2001 on Brassland Records—a label started by the Dessners and friend Alec Hanley Bemis. The National still hadn’t played a single show.

“That’s actually when we realized we needed my brother to join the band,” Aaron says. “Bryce was living in Paris and teaching classical guitar but he agreed to move back over and start playing with us live.”

Even though playing shows seemed the obvious next step for a band with a newly pressed record, The National struggled to secure gigs. Dropping the record off at clubs all over town didn’t translate to bookings, so they settled for the occasional open mic and played frequently at a small art space in Brooklyn called Galapagos.

“Playing live was a struggle, at least for me,” Matt says. “It was just semi-traumatic—a good experience but like jumping into freezing water. After every show I’d go home and feel really good about it, like I’d just battled a fear. But it was never easy. It still isn’t.”

The band’s persistence paid off over time. The Mercury Lounge booked them for an early show and a few bits of press floated to the surface, including a coveted review on Pitchforkmedia.com (“they said, ‘you might as well just wait for the next Silver Jews record’ or something,” Matt laughs). Then a small French label licensed their self-titled album for release overseas. The band traveled to Paris to play a show, which sold out thanks to a feature article in a respected French newspaper. The band was starting to feel halfway legitimate.

“We all saw stars,” says Matt. “We played on this little boat called Guinguette Pirate, and it was the first time we’d played outside New York. When we first played at Mercury Lounge—granted, it was basically our friends who showed up to see us—I remember being on that stage and feeling like, 'OK, we played onstage at Mercury Lounge, we're a band.'

“But when we played in Paris on this little boat in front of total strangers, and it was packed, that’s when I started to entertain the delusional fantasy of being in a rock band and maybe not being a graphic designer anymore. … After we got home from that trip, I’d sit at my desk with work up on my computer and just be listening to song sketches we were working on, writing lyrics all day if I could get away with it, and then try and squeeze in a full day’s work in that last hour. Or I’d be in conference rooms presenting to clients like MasterCard, Pfizer or Motorola and find myself scribbling lyrics in the margins of my meeting notes. Writing songs started to take over and it became harder and harder to concentrate on anything else.”

The National quietly released its second full-length, Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers, in 2003 and began touring behind it almost immediately. The result was infinitely less magical than that dreamy Paris gig. Band members burned up all their vacation time to tour, and wound up serenading bartenders and miniscule crowds. Less stubborn bands would’ve packed it in.

The harsh midnight of obscurity broke gradually after the band released 2005’s Alligator on U.K. label Beggars Banquet. Listeners sprang to attention, assuming it was The National’s debut. Superlatives came flying from all directions. Billboard called it “one of the year’s finest records.” Uncut gave Alligator a perfect rating, calling it “the band’s first masterpiece.” The L.A. Times’ Kevin Bronson touted it as his favorite record of 2005.

Songs from Alligator, such as “Lit Up,” “Abel” and “Mr. November,” knocked out critics—and, at last, burgeoning audiences—with singalong-ready choruses and feverish, melodic hooks. Matt’s distinctively resonant baritone (he’s simultaneously amused and flattered that music critics have compared it to “every different type of whiskey”) came into its own, displaying even more confidence in its ability to turn on a dime from a disaffectedly gorgeous croon to cathartic holler. The louder the racket the band produced, the warmer the response. The National’s fanbase practically grew by the decibel.

Surely 2007’s Boxer would build on that raucous recipe.

Anything else would be self-sabotage, right?

Right?