The Sydney festival program notes refer to New York’s The National
as a mix of “the atmosphere of Joy Division and the gentle twang of Wilco”, which further goes to show how ubiquitous and incorrect references to Ian Curtis are at the moment. Singer and lyricist Matt Berninger may have a baritone the envy of Paul Banks, but that’s right about where any comparision to miserablists should end. There is too much uplift and passion in the music for that. Not to mention effortlessly witty between song banter.

The National are firm heirs to the grand mantle of big, big music. Refreshingly free of hamfisted histrionics, bombast, embarrasing earnestness or self serious throwbacks, the band – much like Wilco – rely on almost peerless musicianship and lacerating lyrical insight to strip the listener to the core. Comprising of two sets of brothers – twins Scott & Bryan Devendorf on guitars and rhythm section Aaron & Bryce Dessner, joined by freakish multi instrumentalist Padma Newsome and rounded out with frontman Berninger – the National effortlessly build layer upon layer of complexity without ever being needlessly showy.

Calling on members of sister support band Clogs, there was a time when 8 musicians and 6 voices filled the City Recital Hall with exactly the kind of granduer it was meant for. Strings and basoon, trumpet, organ, bass being swapped for guitar, guitar for piano, piano for violin – it was an embarrasing amount of talent on show. “We’re used to playing places like CBGBs,” Berninger deadpanned. “But if my parents could see me in a place like this, they’d understand why I quit my dayjob.”

Fans of the last two super-acclaimed records, Alligator and Boxer, were sated by a set which drew heavily from both. The gorgeous ‘Geese of Beverly Road’ with its inspired, extended Edge-worthy ending was likely the highlight, judging from the response. And not letting the austere surrounds interfere with their rock credientials, the band tore into ‘Abel’ and the incomprable ‘Mr November’ as though it were CBGSs, the latter inspiring the lank frontman to clamber into the front rows and howl the chorus from a gentleman’s lap (“I won’t fuck us over! I’m Mr November!”) The back rows might have still felt disconnected in a venue not quite suited to this, but down the front we were goosed til the end after that.

A standing ovation and an encore later, the band are gone, then milling around outside smoking cigarettes, politely accepting the effusive thanks of the dazed and shook up lingerers. If you can get tickets, do. If you don’t have this music, get it. The glimmering world awaits.