Labeling a group like this National always feels tricky, especially when the music drifts between rock and pop. At the heart of their sound lies a guitar texture from Aaron or Bryce Dressner that slices through the prevailing melancholy, a feature that keeps their songbooks compelling. The vocals of Matt Berninger—reserved, careful, almost whispered at times—are not a show of technical prowess but an invitation to linger in the band’s quiet ache. The instrumentation wraps around Berninger’s voice like a soft pillow, while the Dressners carve arpeggios that pulse with an almost hypnotic rhythm. The rhythm section—Bryan on drums and Scott on bass—together with a striking brass augmentation, forms a foundation that feels both expansive and intimate.
Before more than 10,000 concertgoers at Wizink Center in Madrid, The National dedicated themselves to an experience that confirmed their unity with the audience. The opening act, Bartees Strange, led a formidable ensemble and signaled the night’s trajectory toward a future shaped by strong, evolving performances. Berninger, tall and composed, exuded a presence that combined executive poise with the air of a beloved character in a long-running drama. In those moments, a conversation with the crowd was not verbal but visual and kinetic, as he conducted the room with gestures and a nonverbal language that spoke to the shared ache embedded in every track. This is a band where vulnerability is a currency, and the pain in their songs travels to the listeners as if it were their own. The identity of the group is largely carried by Aaron Dressner, a central figure whose work has also influenced the rise of other artists, including Taylor Swift, highlighting the cross-pollination of modern pop and indie rock across scenes. Swift’s recent albums benefited in noticeable ways from the Brooklyn-based ensemble’s influence and production philosophy.
The National came to Spain to present its latest two works, Frankenstein and Laugh Track, two powerfully crafted albums released in the same year. Frankenstein traces Berninger’s introspection through the pandemic’s darkness, while Laugh Track arrives as a testament to creative resilience after years of collaboration and trial. Both discs reveal a band willing to embrace raw honesty and a quiet, architectural sense of songwriting. Laugh Track, in particular, is not a collection of throwaways; it reflects a stage of compositional refinement born from the existential crisis described by the songwriter as an abyss that once threatened to fracture the group after two decades of work.
National magic seems almost inexplicable, built on a blend of steady instrumentation and frontman charisma. The ensemble does not rely on instantly hummable hooks; instead, it relies on the weight of its performances and the intimate atmosphere of a smaller venue. In Madrid, the crowd of adults with a taste for refined, articulate rock created a palpable sense of connection rather than spectacle. The concert’s energy flowed through a curated set that favored depth over immediacy, inviting listeners to inhabit the music rather than merely hear it.
As the setlist unfurled, the band delivered a long arc of material, weaving in and out of familiar pieces and newer explorations. Songs such as first-timers and familiar favorites emerged alongside thoughtful reinventions and extended sections that allowed Berninger to engage the audience through presence rather than loud exclamations. At moments, Berninger left the microphone and walked through the audience, a gesture that reinforced the feeling of proximity and shared ritual. The moment when the crowd joined in for acoustic singalongs of Vanderlyle Crybaby Enthusiasts from the High Violet era became a defining memory of the night, a cathartic close to a performance that had already built to a quiet, overwhelming resonance. The artist’s ache remained a constant through the evening, a compelling reminder of why this music continues to resonate today [citation].