Waiting for the National was a test in patience from the get-go. I headed to Richard's around 930 to join the expanding line-up of people dying to drink and were right annoyed they couldn't. It wasn't until the line started moving that I (and this parched bunch) learned:

1. the National had arrived late and were still engaged in a bit of flustered soundchecking and...
2. the opening band, The Broken West, was denied entry at the border

I was slightly irritated I couldn't see The Broken West and wondered if I should go for a walk around the block to waste time. But when the National teased us with a soundcheck version of my personal favourite -- "Secret Meeting" -- I clung tightly to the stage and stood wide-eyed for so long my eyes nearly crystallized.

The tension that arose after that short soundcheck nugget was so heavy it hurt. With a lack of opening band to calm the collective nerves, it was impossible for the sold-out crowd to contain themselves: after an hour and a half, the crowd summoned them, whistling, chanting, clapping -- everything short of rioting -- just to get them on stage. For a split moment, Richard's didn't feel like a cozy venue in nonchalant Vancouver, but like the thunderous Nippon Budokan.

Finally, Yo La Tengo's haunting "Every Day" eased us into the National's arrival on stage, to the appreciation of our starving ears. What ensued was an emotionally intense evening full of growling, pounding, and -- praise the set-list maker -- a good chunk of songs from my beloved Alligator (listen here), an album that continues to rip out my heart, even on its thousandth play.

Now, let's get the bad news out of the way first:
What puts The National above other mediocre bands is essentially lead singer Matt Berninger's lyrics and growling delivery. At times the quality of sound was smothered in bass, devaluing this very trademark of the band, making lyrics somewhat muffled and indiscernible. But if the "You guys are unreal!" and "We love you!" emanating from the floor and mezzanine was any indication, this was a trivial concern to most attendees present. I soon forgot, too, since what was ruined technically was remedied by a cocktail not every band can pull off: great skill and magnetic stage presence.

The band works together amazingly. Watching Berninger was like sitting back and staring at a crackling fireplace: despite his predictable movements -- or non-movements, given that he spent the entire set clinging to the mic stand -- he was eerily hypnotic to watch. There was a sense of comfort seeing him lean in, eyes closed, and hands clasped tightly around the head of the microphone. Padma Newsome, frantic violinist and keyboardist, was equally engaging. By far the most spirited, this unofficial member of the group attacked his instruments with a dose of love and free-flowing intensity.

For the entire set, we all embraced the words we could actually decipher, sang along together, and zipped our gobs shut when it was time for the slow, pared down pieces, like "Daughters of the Soho Riots". The performance unfolded like a finely crafted story, with a perfectly executed climax at the just the right point of the show; the one-two crowd-pleasing punch of "Fake Empire" and "Mr. November" produced a sea of clapping hands, the loudest sing-a-long of the evening, and uninhibited jumping and \m/ RAWKing.

The call for encore was the loudest and most genuine I've heard, which they addressed with hits "Karen" and "Abel", and the final number -- if anyone remembers the title of this song, please do indulge -- left us all flying on a sonic meaty carpet ride. With a build-up so fantastically lush, there wasn't any other option but for band members to slink off stage one by one, leaving drummer Bryan Devendorf to close the entire night with his hypnotic beats, a meditative thumping that rid us of all our prior tensions, in sync to the buh-buh-buh-buh of our satisfied hearts.