The National, Self-Proclaimed 'Sad Dads,' Left Us Their Hearts in Irving

The rainy Sunday evening was a perfect mood setter for sad indie rock band The National's concert at the Pavilion at Toyota Music Factory. It was the last stop of the band's tour.

The Cincinnati-via-Brooklyn quintet dropped two new albums this year: Laugh Track and First Two Pages of Frankenstein, but they didn't disappoint their lifelong fans who wanted to hear their older material. Yet, fans were already familiar with their new songs. The band opened with "Eucalyptus" from Frankenstein, and nearly the whole crowd seemed to know all the words, chanting along with "You should take it, 'cause I'm not gonna take it." The pace was set for the evening. Frontman Matt Berninger's interaction with the crowd was as heartfelt and intense as his lyrics, occasionally reaching out to hold hands with the front rowers, walking off stage into the pit (the first of many times throughout the night) to yell "I'm Evil" into the arms of the crowd during "Conversation 16." Leaning his body back into the group of fans, it appeared as if Berninger was about to crowd surf — If the crowd's screams were any indication, that would've been a welcomed move — but he composed himself just in time to climb back up the stage just as guitarist Aaron Dessner announced "Green Gloves" from the album Boxer. The tempo dropped significantly, but the emotions still ran high.
The band later teased that they were going to do a Huey Lewis and The News cover song, "The Power of Love." Aaron Dessner jokingly fired back back with "We don't have the capacity to even attempt that" right before swinging into "Lit Up" from their album Alligator, which they said was a recently rediscovered song for them. Their stage presence remained as somber and emotional as their tunes.

Drummer Bryan Devendorf and bassist Scott Devendorf (who are brothers) drove the rhythm home all night, while the Dessner twins, Bryce and Aaron, produced sonic wails from their guitars and keyboard. If Berninger wasn't reaching out toward the crowd, he was reaching out to the air, as if to grasp some lost emotion that tied into the lyrics he was singing. He even got a bit heavy with "Abel," screaming the words "My mind's not right" and hitting himself upside the head. He seemed something akin to a hardcore vocalist (if they dressed in tailored suits, that is).

Bursting into bouts of explosive energy, especially during "Smoke Detector," the Dessner twins shredded together, while Berninger danced around screaming the words to everything. Without a skip, he yelled "This night is so emotional" right before the band dove into "The Day I Die," where he went into the crowd area, walked around and sung the last chorus with the audience: "The day I die, the day I die, where will we be?"
Berninger took the phone of a fan who was recording, and sung into it during "England," then tossed it back from the stage, giving the fan the raddest-ever concert memory. There's something about listening to a band whose catalog perfectly encapsulates every moment of heartbreak, self-doubt, glimmer of hope, and crying sessions while locked into the solitude of your room or car. To be able to connect with a stadium filled with strangers who are also letting their emotions fly, and realizing you were never really alone in those moments is one of the most humbling things. The National did just that for the thousands in attendance.

The band paid great attention to the immediate front-of-stage audience, but brought that around back also, where a certain Observer photographer/writer got to give Berninger a high-five and fan-out just a bit with the rest.

The National's catalog is filled with melancholy, but the audience participation, along with the blaring horns and ripping guitars, made the show a fiery, emotional, shouting fest. The talented group ended the night with "Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks," for which they went acoustic, leading Berninger to rein in the audience into a raucous singalong. Every member of the crowd clamored over each other to sing and yell out their heartaches — and of their love for the self-proclaimed "Sad Dads."