A few hours ago my friend Blake sent me the new National record, "High Violet." My mom, who always brings up the episode of Oprah about Emotional Intelligence and the 'marshmallow test,' where the kid being tested can either take one marshmallow immediately or wait and he or she will be awarded a second marshmallow, would have been proud of me. I waited to listen to the album until I finished writing something that I am having to force out of myself. My treat was to turn out the lights, lay on my couch, close my eyes and fold my hands across my chest and listen. (I fold my hands when I think of it and more importantly, close my eyes whenever I can because this cuts down on energy loss but just like the calcium deposits signifying an excess of calcium, my behavior often shows an excess of energy. Tonight though I really just wanted to concentrate on the music.)
The sounds and lyrics brought me to a National show at Warsaw in Brooklyn with Rila, Blake and Lindsey, Polish sausage and sauerkraut. I thought about 'Weird Science,' and 'Can't Buy Me Love.' A review I'd read months back predicting the National getting bigger and isolating their core audience, simply by being thought has vanished from my mind, chalked up to filler words and filler thoughts, the norm now, in a world of filler news. I remembered a show at Webster Hall where I excuse me'ed my way up to the front of the stage to hand the singer a copy of my magazine during the pause between songs. And, as one thought ended and I wound up back on my couch, back in the music, I was off and running again.
The National encapsulate a spirit of New York City that resonates with me and they're the first to present it. They are not Velvet Underground or Paul Simon, Nice-n-Smooth, F.E.D.S. magazine or UTZ chips. They're carving out their own interpretation and sharing with their fans, their ever-changing relationship with a city and it's effect on their own personal development.
Ten hours ago, I was cleaning up a river with 5th, 6th, 7th and 8th graders. We had rubber gloves and we went for it: bottles, candy wrappers, styrofoam, shoes and other junk is out of the river. It looks great now. I was one of the last ones to start back for the school but a group of kids had waited for me. Our conversation was in Bulgarian and it as it often does, it drifted into talking about words. I said that I'm not a "kid," sort of joking because when we're playing basketball they call me by my first name and some just always call me Mr. Albin, mixing young and old. After we finished talking about ways we address people, one boy said, dismissing all other qualifications, 'You're our friend; that's what we call you.' This boy is hearing my new record but he doesn't really know any of my old ones. The person who hears "High Violet," and it's the first National record he or she hears, will love it for what it is and their appreciation of the band will only grow as they discover the work leading up to it.
I didn't pass the marshmallow test because I listened to the new album without an album cover in my hand, no artwork, no pictures. I'll never know how two would have tasted but this one was more than I imagined.
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