Sleep Well Beast

A new The National album is always an event in my life. Whereas other artists take the guest room: their music comes, their music goes; The National move in. Taking over the house, their tunes set into the plaster, becoming part of the fabric of daily life. Ever since I heard them ten years ago, the band has meant a lot to me. Whenever people talk about The National, they say things like, “their albums take a few listen,” or “you might not think much of it at first, but give it a while.” They are seen as growers: the kind of diffident school kids that people kick into the shadows; the kind, though, that when given time and attention bloom into something extraordinary. Although I understand other people feel this way about the band, it’s not how I would describe my relationship. This wasn’t a Harry and Sally courtship of many years; it was Romeo and Juliet, a sweet surrender, love at first listen.

It didn't take a whole movie for me and The National to get together.

The two missionaries my friend sent out on a conversion course were ‘Fake Empire’ and ‘All The Wine.’ I still remember the MixTape. “Fake Empire’ was the first track and ‘All The Wine’ was near the end – just like the track position on their respective albums. ‘Empire’ was sophistication to my ears. ‘Tiptoe through our shiny city with our diamond slippers on”- I’d been waiting years to hear lyrics like that. In a songwriting world of nouns, someone was using adjectives – gorgeous ones at that. The song is something of a siren though. Its earlier imagery is a deception because by the end there is talk of someone ‘falling through the sky;’ that along with a cacophony of brass suggest all is not well in Bush’s America. This juxtaposition of beauty and horror is what The National do so well. 

‘All The Wine’ struck me as the best distillation of drunkenness committed to song. It captures the sweet spot of drinking, a temporary heaven the demons can’t reach. Tomorrow you’ll feel murky and shit but right here, right now, you feel exceptional: the A-grade ‘perfect piece of ass,’ the charismatic ‘festival,' the showboating ‘parade.’ With lines like ‘the motorcade will have to go around me this time,’ the song is also very funny. The image of a drunk diverting a processional route is hilarious, pointing to an off-beat humour that many ignore when considering the band. After hearing these two tunes, I bought Boxer and then worked backwards through the albums. Then, like every other National fan I’ve had to wait for each new release; the wait for Sleep Well Beast has been the longest yet – four years: was it worth it?

Due to the solo projects of band members, Sleep Well Beast has benefited from a longer gestation period. Guitarists Aaron and Bryce Dessner for instance have been producing albums and movie scores for Frightened Rabbit and The Revenant respectively. The other band siblings, drummer Bryan and bassist Scott Devendorf were instrumental in curating a Grateful Dead compilation that features over 60 artists. And vocalist Matt Berninger collaborated with Brent Knopf on their album Return to the Moon. Although the band’s open relationship might frustrate fans waiting on an album, in the long-run this might be a good thing: the individuals can go out and sow their wild oats and then come back into the fold ready to make sweet music again. It’s better that the band give one another space, than resent the suffocating circumstances of tour-record-repeat.

Because the band have spent time working with others, it’s understandable that their sound has changed. The Dessners, the band's musical force, are friends with Bon Iver; this could explain the band’s evolution into electronica – a move he too has made. Indeed, the difference between this record and the last is the most marked since Alligator and Boxer, which saw the band look beyond their competencies and co-opt outside agents to form an orchestral sound. On Sleep Well Beast the sound isn’t red wine rich; it's more mulled and sketchy.

It begins with ‘Nobody Else Will Be There,’ which has Berninger's nighttime voice summoning his love home. He doesn’t want to be surrounded by strangers, but home with her – a motif that started on Boxer with ‘Slow Show’ and ‘Apartment Story.' It’s an understated opening, one that doesn’t come out of the traps like ‘Secret Meeting’ or ‘Terrible Love.’ Its coil of piano seeps into your brain though, and when Berninger changes pitch half way through at "Hey baby" your heart surrenders to the troubadour. Much has been written about the lyrical content being fictionalised- a Berninger marriage survival guide, if you will, where he writes his fears in the hope they won’t come to pass. Although this gets to the pith and the core of the album, it doesn’t tell the whole story. A later track ‘Dark Side Of The Gym’ doesn’t read or sound like a psychiatrist’s homework task, instead it sways and shuffles like a first dance. It recalls the romanticism of Richard Hawley, in that it’s a big wet rose of a tune, re-positioning him and his wife as Adam and Eve, being serenaded by cherubs in the Garden of Eden.

Critics are right to pick up on the thematic concern of a relationship in crisis AKA 'the seven-year itch.' One wonders how Berninger’s wife, a former New Yorker fiction editor, feels when she proofs ‘Day I Die.’ It’s a fiesta celebrating the passing of a relationship; a dream of an after-life with someone else. Its jubilant reiteration of death captures those terrible moments in marriage where you would rather be six-foot underground than next to the partner you love. It’s a booty call for the Reaper to make him a bedfellow of him. It’s a tune that puts the dark into humour. On ‘Empire Line’ too, the weight of romance weighs heavily. The feeling of not being able to communicate is desperate here though, less tongue-in-cheek, more heart-on-sleeve, "Can’t you find a way? Can’t you find a way? You’re in this too?" Towards the end, the song dissolves into a brass section, redolent of ‘Fake Empire,’ illustrating the enormity of the emotion.

Another preoccupation on the record seems to be mental illness; a theme best discussed with reference to ‘Walk It Back’ and ‘I'll Still Destroy You.’ The first with its blips and beeps is a malfunctioning robot. Our protagonist ruefully puts pay to Gandhi’s ‘Be the change you want to see,’ by decrying ‘nothing I change changes anything.’ He is the paranoid android of Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, alone and adrift, unable to see the wood from the trees. Inertia has displaced body and water; he’s comprised wholly of pessimism and defeat. Towards the end, the voice and guitar gets a little warmer with the concession ‘I’ll need you light.’ As yet he can’t see hope, but at least he knows it exists. 

‘I’ll Still Destroy You’ has Berninger climbing out of the basement of his brain to reclaim his happy place. It tackles the early stages of medication when your body is thrown out of sync. There are moments when the caplets evoke happiness ("this one like your mother’s arms when she was young and sunburned") and shame ("this one’s like your sister’s best friends in a bath calling you to join them.") Even when levelled you feel hopeless, because clarity brings as much trouble as delusion: clear-headed, you realise you’ve got to get your shit together and clear up the house you’ve left to ruin. At the end though, we get that light again: ‘it’s just the lights coming on.’ For me, the coda recalled Bloc Party’s ‘So Here We Are,’ in that it builds to Berninger’s transfiguration: bathed in light, he achieves spiritual transcendence, accepting life is for living.

On the final track, Sleep Well Beast there is relapse, a sense the battle can't be won. The demon has scorched-earthed hope, leaving Berninger lost to nightmares again. This incoherence is mirrored in the surrounding guitar parts, which stir and stalk. Will our hero ever tame his monster? Or like Dr.

Frankenstein is he too afraid to?

Sleep Well Beast is an album full of demons and angels. It will take you into the pit of the human psyche, and elevate you to the skies of human creativity. After four years, the beast has been unleashed. Lie with it and tell me what you think.       

This Country

Kurtan and Kerry are at a bus stop - they aren't waiting for a bus.

Kurtan: (points off camera)  Over there we saw Lawrence Llewellyn-Bowen once and once in the shop and once up Burley Hill riding his bike, didn’t we?

Kerry: (wanting to be part of the yarn) And in the Co-op.

Kurtan: Yeah.

Kerry: Because I was walking in the Co-op and he was coming out and I said, “After you,” and he said, “No, after you.” (In awe) He’s so humble.

Kurtan:  So humble. And I asked him, “When do we get to see you back on our screens. (Getting emotional) Because it’s a crying shame that I don’t get to see you as often. And he just shrugged.

Kerry:   And he just shrugged like that. (Her shrugged shoulders a homage to her hero)  It’s such a shame.

Kerry and her cousin Kurtan are stuck in limbo. Living an unemployed existence, the pair aimlessly tread the land. Kerry Mucklowe lives with her mother, a shout upstairs, that we never see. Like a child with a new hobby, her father has started a new family, which means he 'must' cast out the old.  Lee “Kurtan” Mucklowe resides across the road with his grandmother. He goes by the sobriquet “Kurtan” because of his 90’s hairstyle. 

I appreciate so far this all sounds very miserable and Mike Leigh. 

But Kurtan’s hairstyle is a metaphor for the Mucklowe’s: although they have failed to move out of the Cotswold village like their peers, they’re pleased to be stuck in the past. The two invoke school days like they were yesterday and hang around with children half their age. Afraid of the future, enthral to the past, they’re a couple of Holden Caulfield’s, aware that yesterday is safely familiar; whereas tomorrow is frightfully uncertain. For each other, they’re the catcher in the rye, preventing the other from falling into adulthood. They sustain each other but they restrict each other too. They’re one others jailer; they’re one another’s saviour. They're bound by blood, rooted in soil. They will not be separated.

Young and lost.

Some of you might be thinking that I belong in Pseuds Corner for likening a BBC Three comedy to Salinger’s Catcher. I think great literature and comedy can go hand in hand. This week I was listening to Ben Elton's lecture on the sitcom. He made the intelligent case for comedy, arguing it does something far more powerful than drama, in that it tells truths whilst eliciting laughs. Just because something is funny it doesn’t mean it can’t be profound. The Office has characters stuck in delusions just like Tennessee Williams' creations; Steptoe and Son has a Beckettian pair quarrelling through oblivion; and Fawlty Towers has the thwarted ambition of an Arthur Miller play. These great sitcoms are bank jobs of the mind: they may wear a comedy mask, but peel it back and you're faced with brutal truths. Great comedy is Art- to claim otherwise is pretentious.

This Country ‘s two characters are cousins, when their creators are in actual fact siblings. Daisy May Cooper’s time at RADA had been unhappy and fruitless. Away from her Cirencester home, she suffered from homesickness and class consciousness. On leaving drama school, her CV slipped so far that even her agent forgot about her. Her brother’s life followed a similar trajectory. Staying at home rather than attending university, Charlie Cooper worked in Argos and a sausage factory. With Daisy returning home, Charlie collaborated with her on ideas that would go on to become This Country. To date, it’s one of the most downloaded iPlayer shows, becoming popular enough to transfer onto BBC One. Unsurprisingly, it has been recommissioned for a second series.

In the first paragraph I gave you the backstory of the characters without sharing any of the content. So here is a flavour: in the first episode, Limbo is displaced by Pandemonium as the village gets all excited by the annual scarecrow competition. The residents have been spending the summer stuffing their creations and now want recompense. Kurtan has been working round-the-clock to ensure victory is his (he does have the advantage of having nothing else to do). However, when he arrives at the competition, he finds his scarecrow overlooked by novelty ones, hardly in keeping with the tradition he holds sacred. Without giving away the end, I’ll just say Kurtan has a burning ambition to lift the crown, and leave you to mull that sentence. Meanwhile, Kerry is up in arms over the ‘pluming’ in her home. This isn’t to do with burst pipes or leaking cisterns, but the fact that her house is being attacked with plums. Earlier in a David Brent Reading, Aldershot, Bracknell, Didcot moment she bemoans gang life, 

“I got enemies in South Cerney, I got enemies in North Cerney, I got enemies in Cerney Wick. I got enemies in Bourton-on-the-Water.” 

Kerry’s crew comprised of ten-year-olds will not let sleeping dogs lie; consequently, they stalk the village looking for the perpetrator. A scarecrow competition and drive-by pluming aren’t typical sitcom plot-lines, but due to the upbringing of the creators they circumvent village stereotype, feeling completely natural and authentic.

Kerry and her posse.

Above, I spoke about the influence of The Office, and unlike most post-Brent mockumentaries, this does Gervais and Merchant proud. A lot of sitcoms in this style feel inauthentic because you wonder why on earth a documentary crew would film there. With This Country being an unvarnished look at rural life, it feels like an unexpurgated version of Countryfile. something the BBC would make to provide balance. Kerry and Kurtan also love television, fawning over Dragons Den and Masterchef, so it’s understandable why they would welcome the cameras. And although they’re not as stupid as they look, neither are they as smart as they purport, meaning they can’t maintain a façade: we see them both as belligerent bullies and victims of circumstance. They aren’t just a pair of Holden Caulfieds then; they’re a couple of David Brents. We come to love them because beneath the rhubarb and bluster they’re decent and honest. They are capable of unintentional cruelty and intentional kindness. They do good; they do bad. They're human.

This Country is in the great sitcom tradition of being an underdog story. Six chapters are available on YouTube. So click on and read Gloucestershire’s answer to Catcher in the Rye.

Born to Run

I can’t claim to be Bruce Springsteen’s biggest fan. From his extensive back catalogue, I own just three albums: Born to Run, Darkness on the Edge of Town and Born in the USA. The only performance I’ve seen is footage from his half-time American Super Bowl show. But I’m fascinated enough to read his autobiography. Fascinated, because he’s managed to sustain a career where so many of his contemporaries have failed. Indeed not only has Springsteen survived; he’s prospered: Devil’s Dust and Wrecking Ball, two recent offerings, succeeded commercially and critically. I'm interested because I remember reading articles documenting support for Obama, transgender rights and unionised workers. I know the image of Springsteen: blue jeans, clenched fist, America’s child – but I don’t know the man. I want to learn where this blue-collar millionaire came from; I want to discover how the Bard of the Highways survived Fame’s inevitable car crash; I want to find out about a person whom lives on The Hills but looks up to the downtrodden.

Springsteen begins his autobiography by revealing that a rock concert is a ‘magic trick.’ Before the show there is nothing but potential. There is a stage for the magician to take his place, but as yet nothing magical has occurred. Then, when the conjurer walks in, anticipation fills the air. If the sorcerer has put the time in, they have within their power the chance to astound and amaze. So it is with the rock band. If music is your vocation, showmanship your calling, then no one in the audience will see your sleight of hand: the grab for the microphone, the chord change, the hoopla game with the strap – no, they’ll just feel it. Every magic trick begins with ‘a set up.’ The spiel, blarney and talk. Springsteen starts by telling us about his family, stoking the anticipation for what we’ve really come to find out: how the hell do you write a song like ‘Born to Run’?

Rockin' the Super Bowl.

Bruce was born into an Irish-Italian family in Freehold, New Jersey. Brought up near St Rose church, Springsteen was literally raised in the bosom of Catholicism. Living in his grandparents’ house, the generations clashed. Given her own daughter died young, his grandmother doted on him. This maternal devotion did not sit well with Bruce’s mother, who struggled for power against this matriarch. Feeling usurped, she instead chose to mother her husband. A man who took to the bottle, Douglas Springsteen was a man that needed looking after. Often he would return home drunk, taking out his frustrations on his wife and children. Instead of offering her children support, she brought her husband to breast, placating him over her offspring. When Springsteen’s grandparents died, he felt orphaned. He would later go on to enjoy a healthy relationship with his mother, but he found one with his father a lot harder to come by.

This patter is the backdrop for the trick Springsteen would come to learn. Whilst watching the Ed Sullivan Show in 1956, he along with 70 million other Americans were introduced to the gyrating hips of Elvis Presley. The shake, rattle and roll of the man’s body bewitched and dismayed the country in equal measure. In the young Springsteen it set him off on a course: How can I pull a stunt like that? How can I pull a song from my hat? How can the eyes of the world be on me?

Earning money by mowing his aunt’s lawn, Springsteen bought a guitar. It wouldn’t be long before he joined his first band The Castiles, named after a brand of shampoo. Unfortunately, a drugs bust meant Springsteen lost two members of his band: a problem that wouldn’t come out in the wash; consequently, the band folded.

From there, Springsteen would go on to form Steel Mill, a seed that would eventually germinate into the world-renowned E Street Band. Until then, the magician toiled. He felt that he had mastered the tricks, yet he didn’t have the audience to perform them to. Up and down, across east and west of America, Springsteen went seeking discovery. The road that he would go on to mythologise as signifying freedom, nearly broke him: his band gained kudos but no contract. His dream of being a rock star left him destitute and, by today’s definition, homeless. That house of cards he’d built in his head- money, adulation, girls, fame, glory, freedom, art and joy – was in danger of falling in.

When you’re good enough though you can’t be ignored. It doesn’t matter about the trends, patterns, the prevailing wind; talent will always out. Springsteen wrote the songs that would become Greetings from Asbury Park; the magic dust ensured a contract, yet it didn’t realise his ambitions. The album recorded with his E Street Band sold copy, yet never really captured the consciousness of America. Was the parochial album title the sign of a parochial man: a local artist that could appeal to his people, but never appeal to The People?

The first album.

Then, came 'Born to Run.' The song took six months to come together. Steeped in the history of rock n’ roll - women, cars and the road – Springsteen set about re-casting this old story for a modern world. Like a rabbit at a dog track, it comes haring out of the traps. Its pace is supercharged and relentless, an autobahn put to music. Just when you feel this giant pinball of a song is over, the piano flips the ball back into play and it's bouncing yet again. The song is pure exhilaration, an endorphin head-rush that takes your brain from your body, allowing you to experience the full visceral sensation of music. The album that included the aforementioned was a huge hit, ensuring Springsteen went stratospheric – his life would never be the same again.

The autobiography, therefore, is named after Springsteen’s hit song and album. It’s also some damning wordplay on the man he once was. In 1985 he married Julianne Phillips, an actress and a model. The pebble that he threw in his 1980 album, The River, finally created a ripple. That record spoke of his preoccupation with stability and contentment – was it possible? His sister’s marriage hadn’t worked out. His mother and father were hardly adverts for marital bliss. Despite this, Bruce wanted a partner. Throwing your life to the road seems free and liberating, but there comes a time when it can feel empty, meaningless and selfish. His marriage to Phillips was meant to tether his restless spirit, instead the opposite happened. The love that Phillips gave him wasn’t reciprocated. By his own admission, he behaved appallingly, beginning a relationship with Patti Scialfa whilst wed. His enduring marriage to Scialfa does not vindicate his treatment of his first wife and he's honest about that.

Causing a storm.

Throughout Springsteen’s autobiography, he confesses to running when he sometimes needed to stay still. In the later part of his story, he speaks about his battle with mental health, and how it took him far too long to seek professional help, relying instead on the road for ballast. At the height of his fame, he reveals that it was his band and the shows they played that stopped him ‘launching into the ozone layer.’ This darkening mood is seen in records like Nebraska and Tunnel of Love, proving that The Boss can do close-up introspection as well as jump-cut car scenes. As fame and love hit harder, Springsteen became a different artist, maybe a less commercial one, but a better one, able to excavate his soul for public display.

These quiet, somber records were often done in isolation without the big, vibrant sound of The E Street Band. This band of brothers had to accept an extended period of gardening leave whilst their boss pursued his own interests. The fact that the group would reform after ten years apart and enjoy universal acclaim for their subsequent tours shows the power of their union. One of the fascinating parts of the book is seeing how Springsteen squares being a Democrat in politics and a dictator in music. Corralling a group of big personalities into a unified whole requires an excellent herder. If you pull the rope too taut, the horse will baulk. This balancing act between being boss and friend was something Springsteen undertook in his early twenties: his ability to see it through demonstrates the strength of his vision and charisma.

Bruce's managerial responsibilities didn't extend to the band's wardrobe.

Another fascinating part of his story is seeing how his songs have been misunderstood. Springsteen is one of the great lyricists: he uses his characters to explore thematic and social concerns – that’s not something you can say about many songwriters. He writes with nuance, exploring different perspectives in different verses; the inattentive ear might misinterpret what he’s doing. So it’s has proved with 'Born in The USA': a swipe at the administration’s poor treatment of returning Vietnam vets; some have instead seen this as paean to America. Ronald Reagan even had it as his walk on music – until someone told him that a song was more than a chorus. Another tune, 'American Skin', written in response to the police shooting of a black male was roundly booed by some of his fans, believing Springsteen had turned his back on emergency workers he allegedly supported. Look at the lyrics though and you’ll see a journalist's rigour: both police and victim are represented. Again, the chorus of ’41 shots cut through the night’ is the one people hear, and not the police officer ‘kneeling over his body in the vestibule praying for his life.’ Again, his song is more than the chorus.

I really loved Springsteen’s autobiography. In the penultimate chapter, he concedes that he may not have given the whole story – people’s feelings need to be protected after all. To me, it doesn’t matter. A little bit of mystery is a good thing. We don’t want the whole trick explained. Just seeing it, appreciating it, is enough.

Born to Run is available from all good bookshops.