The National Capture a Legacy on Rome

There’s no doubt that the National are a pre-eminent live band of our time—critics reliably leave their shows with glowing verdicts, declaring them “an era-defining band at the peak of their powers” and “one of this century’s finest. Long may they reign.” Part of this is a natural result of the band’s immense talent—the Dessner and Devendorf brothers alongside Matt Berninger, one of the most instantly recognizable lead singers of his generation, remains a lineup for the ages, more than two decades after their humble Cincinnati origins.

But the band’s live mastery also speaks to the emotional urgency and intensity of their lyrics. At this dystopian moment in time, where detached irony and cynicism are the default, the band continues to capture the heartbreak of the human experience with unflinching honesty. “It takes an ocean not to break” declares Berninger on “Terrible Love,” the penultimate song on their latest live LP, Rome. It’s one of countless songs from his band where emotional overwhelm is the default. While on “Don’t Swallow The Cap,” Berninger delivers a rallying cry: “Everything I love is on the table,” a reminder of how much is at stake at any given moment; of the heart-breaking capacity for immense loss. His vocal performance of this song live is somehow even more commanding than that he delivers on the studio version—both markedly more commanding and more vulnerable, reaching a certain intimacy ungathered on Trouble Will Find Me.

Rome is the National’s first live album on DSPs in over half-a-decade (2019’s Juicy Sonic Magic was a Record Store Day exclusive)—a time that has seen the band release two new albums and collaborate with the likes of Taylor Swift, Phoebe Bridgers and Sufjan Stevens. These five years have also been times of immense upheaval for the world at large—from the COVID-19 pandemic to the end of one Trump presidency and the soon-to-be arrival of another one. It feels fitting then that this set begins with a song like “Runaway” and the words “there’s no saving anything.” Later, “Mr. November” takes on a bittersweet resonance with its mournful nostalgia and loss of optimism (“I wish that I believed in fate, I wish I didn’t sleep so late / I used to be carried in the arms of cheerleaders”). Hearing the song live provokes its own kind of nostalgia, too—it’s been a while since the song’s rollicking, rocking setting was the band’s default.

If there’s one central feat of Rome, it is in capturing the National’s longevity—all of the band’s incisive meditations on the human condition remain affecting and timeless, whether they’re playing material from 2003’s Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers or last year’s First Two Pages of Frankenstein and Laugh Track. Yet, while the band have undergone many metamorphoses in this time, you’d be hard pressed to find any slippage in quality across a setlist like this. Most of the older songs have only become more prescient and powerful in the years since their creation. “Lit Up,” from 2005’s Alligator, electrifies the set at its midway point, remaining one of the band’s most straightforwardly euphoric tunes. Meanwhile, the late Bush-era “Fake Empire” conjures a malaise (“We’re half awake in a fake empire”) parallel to the culture Boxer was released into. It helps that, compared to 2018’s Live in Brussels rendition (which was disappointingly one-note), the band are on top form here and they know it—ringing out the song with a particularly cathartic and triumphant horn section.

Three of the four inaugural songs on Rome are from 2023’s First Two Pages of Frankenstein. Though sandwiched between much older material, anyone unfamiliar with the band’s timeline would be none the wiser. This is a remarkably cohesive set for a band in constant transformation. When approaching their newer material, the National add a notably sharper-edge to the songs in a live capacity—Bryan Devendorf’s drumming comes further into the forefront, while the Dessners’ twin-guitar playing is at its most urgent and intricate. “Eucalyptus,” for instance, is boosted by rollicking drumming that sounds both immense and on the verge of collapse. The song’s power and, simultaneously, its fragility add greater emotional heft to Berninger’s lyrics—from his portrayal of divvying up once shared possessions after a separation to his mournful, self-loathing refrain (“You should take it, ‘cause I’m not gonna take it / You should take it, I’m only going to break it”).

Even amidst deafening performances from the band, you can hear the crowd emphatically singing along. Though they undoubtedly did this for the lion’s share of the band’s set, this is one of only a handful of songs where the crowd’s singing is audible throughout the recording—loud enough to break through the walls of guitars and drums, making it clear that these relatively new songs have already found a treasured home in the hearts of the band’s loyal listeners.

Rome ends with a five-song sequence that speaks to the band’s legacy both on the stage and in the unparalleled 20-year creative streak they’ve fostered. The aforementioned “Fake Empire” is followed by the newest song on the setlist, “Smoke Detector,” a six-minute, building portrait of dread, which contains one of the band’s sharpest verses:

“Sift through the slush and the ash and the dust
Or whatever stands out for whatever reason
It’s a laugh for a rush, a remembered feeling
You don’t know what it means but you don’t want to leave it”

“Mr November” is every bit as thrilling all these years later and still a strong contender for the “Best National Song” mantle. Hearing these two songs, released 18 years apart, allows examination of what has changed, and what has stayed the same in the band’s work. Berninger remains a masterful portrayer of disaffection, but it’s clear that much of the frantic, angsty urgency of “Mr November” has been replaced by the sort of brooding, middle-aged worry that “Smoke Detector” trades in.

The penultimate “Terrible Love,” which lingers in loud-quiet dynamics, utilizes Berninger’s quivering baritone. He squeezes ennui out of lines like “it takes an ocean not to break.” Live, it’s clear that Berninger is willing to take more risks with his vocal delivery—allowing his voice to quiver and crack more, channeling in the process a certain heart-on-the-sleeve spontaneity. This exhaustive, 21-song album ends with “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks,” where the band hand over vocals to the crowd. It’s not as if there was any doubt going into this album that the connection between the National and their audience was, and is, something deeply special, yet hearing a thousands-strong crowd passionately deliver every word of “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks” without missing a beat or a syllable proves that the powerful bond forged between them is something very rare indeed.