The National

Sandra Dee got us tickets to see The National perform at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. And by tickets I mean she got us orchestra tickets in the dead center, so that when Matt Berninger decided to bodydurf in the crowd, crawling his way row by row, we got to touch him. I'm going to say that the moment was more memorable for Sandra Dee than for me, especially since she had said at the beginning of the concert, "If I could touch him, I would just die."

She didn't die. But, you know, the universe was clearly listening.

I like The National a lot. It's hard not to love classics like Fake Empire and All the Wine. The band is supposed to be indie-rock but they seem to have a busy hum in the background that I associate with groups like Postal Rock. Which means you can have guitar/ whiskey lyrics, you can have rock ballad epics, but you have a busyness that keeps the songs moving. And keeps you ticking.

I have not yet fully heard their new album, High Violet. But I loved the song Runaway. It's one of those songs I imagine I will play over and over again as I settle down into the night time routines, when I turn off the TV, make sure that the dirty dishes in the sink are covered with a little bit of water so they'll be more amenable to cleaning the following day (or week or /end), drink a glass or two of water so that I'll be hydrated in the morning, swallow the occasional vitamin pill if I remember to do so, check that the door is locked, turn off the lights . . . and the music.