For The National, 2005 marked a transformative year. After years of playing to sparse audiences and observing peers like The Strokes and Interpol achieve greater success—“always on the outside of a scene looking in,” as they described it—they reached what felt like a turning point. According to band lore, there was even an occasion when they were paid not to play.
“I remember times thinking, ‘I can’t be 35 and performing for just 10 people and staying in youth hostels,’” recalls Matt Berninger. Having released two albums, the band saw this as a crucial juncture. “We produced those first two records ourselves, started a record label, put them out, booked shows, and stumbled a bit for a couple of years. It was a great learning experience,” said Aaron Dessner.
Thus, ‘Alligator’ emerged—a vivid representation of a band striving to carve out their niche. Still juggling day jobs and now signed to Beggars Banquet, the urgency to succeed resonates throughout the album.
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The album cover’s black, white, and neon green colors set an evocative tone; an out-of-focus close-up of Berninger’s face, captured by Vincent Moon, appears under a haunting chandelier as he flees into the night. The record embodies a raw, untamed energy: it channels nervous intensity into something explosive, representing the inner struggles of individuals navigating their lives while making a poignant statement on the gradual loss of youth amid the trials of adulthood. However, it's also infused with a sharp, humorous wit.
‘Alligator’ is the album where The National truly found their identity. It was a moment of crystallization, announcing them as the poetic voices of existential anxiety and disillusionment. Across the album, listeners will find recurring ideas, themes, and motifs that they would revisit time and again. To me, this album defines them more than both ‘Boxer’ and ‘High Violet.’
While I appreciate those two albums, they come across as overly polished compared to ‘Alligator.’ The latter is more intense and vibrant—a wiry, elemental work buzzing with after-hours anxiety, rife with paranoia and sharp guitar work. Yet, it's balanced with lush, dreamy chamber pop elements, delivering powerful emotional impacts through tender, stunning, and heartbreaking moments.
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It’s an extraordinary album, filled with longing, love, and witty observations—a collection of songs that resonate with those feeling disconnected, rebelling against the monotony of adult life while simultaneously managing to laugh at its absurdity.
This record marks a band discovering its creative groove. The sound is sharper, with the Dessner twins' guitars taking prominence, and Bryan Devendorf’s drums more pronounced, allowing the band to carve out a shadowy realm laden with tension and anxiety. They paint richer pictures than before, while Berninger’s carefully crafted character sketches hit deeper. Crucially, it achieves the right balance, flowing beautifully throughout.
You can sense the dynamic, occasionally contentious, relationship between Berninger and the Dessner twins. Berninger recounts tales of love won and lost, of unfulfilled aspirations and feelings of inadequacy. These narratives are supported by thoughtful, eerie compositions featuring jagged guitars and driving drums, interspersed with intriguing arrangements—thanks in part to Padma Newsome, the band's ‘sixth’ member, who contributed classical instrumentation.
The lyrics emerge from the darkly humorous musings of various characters. Berninger’s tendency for exhaustive self-reflection captures a specific modern anxiety. He embodies a myriad of roles: the perfect figure carried by cheerleaders, the great white hope; he encompasses all of that and more.
The album conveys the turmoil of feeling past one’s prime while still young and exploring an obsession with the ups and downs of romance—the messy, chaotic, and sometimes euphoric experiences of two people trying to make their relationship work. During the creation of ‘Alligator,’ Matt and his then-girlfriend Carin, not yet married, experienced a cycle of breaking up and getting back together. “Trying to resist the person you might end up with,” Carin describes. Some songs effectively serve as a diary of that period, like when he sings on ‘Baby, We’ll Be Fine,’ “I pull off your jeans and you spill Jack and Coke in my collar.”
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As for the music itself, it opens with the ethereal, shimmering ‘Secret Meeting,’ which encapsulates the album's essence with Berninger’s lines about vanishing gracefully in rooms while keeping his sunglasses on. There’s the delicate elegance of ‘Daughters of the Soho Riots,’ the thrilling darkness of ‘Lit Up,’ and the frenetic energy of ‘Abel.’ The album concludes with ‘Mr. November,’ forever their anthem, where the pent-up anxiety and frustrations erupt in a burst of serrated guitar riffs and driving drums. “I WON’T FUCK US OVER! I’M MR. NOVEMBER!”
Yet, it is ‘The Geese of
For The National, 2005 seemed to be a crucial year. The band had dedicated years to performing in empty venues while observing their peers, such as The Strokes, gain popularity.
