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The National is the United States of America—with guitars, and occasional piano, and a lead singer whose commanding baritone summons the storytelling majesty of Dylan (minus all the nasal whining and general suckiness). It’s true that--back in the days of Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers--they got off to a fumbling start. That album saw frontman Matt Berninger unleashing the occasional lyrical clunker, and the band itself straining too hard to ape the chiming guitars of early U2. [ed. note - not everyone at GC agrees with this statement, but we wholeheartedly agree with the writer's right to make it.] Thankfully, everyone and their brother can attest to the fact that their last effort, Alligator, was the sleeper masterpiece of 2005. The album languished on my iPod for a year before a clued-in friend slapped me upside the head and made me pay attention, just in time for Boxer’s release (and The National’s subsequent ascension to Hot Shit Band Of The 21^st Century, replacing Arcade Fire, who it seems everyone got bored of/pissed off with at exactly the same time).

While it might be a case of blowing the load too early, Boxer’s opening pair of tracks makes a delicious combo. There aren’t any straightforward rippers like “Mr. November” or “Abel” on this album, but “Fake Empire” and “Mistaken For Strangers” come the closest to letting loose. And as for The National being the musical equivalent to America itself in 2007, i.e., a lovable country and admitted Wonderful Place to Live that just happens to be, you know, a renewed imperial monster under the tutelage of a maybe-retarded Texan? Well, here’s the very first couplet we hear on Boxer:

Stay out super late tonight, picking apples, making pies. Put a little something in our lemonade and take it with us. We’re half awake in our fake empire.

Berninger drawls like he’s gobbled a few Valium, and that’s all before the horns come in. It’s a frankly perfect song, a bittersweet melody dressed up as a cheerful, nostalgic summer anthem. “Mistaken for Strangers” follows up with a nice chugging rhythm—it’s The National pretending to be Interpol for a few minutes (and arguably doing a better job at it, too).

“Squalor Victoria” is another standout, and also a reminder of how important drummer Bryan Devendorf’s looping, insistent rhythm work propels this band. (Ditto for “Apartment Story,” which takes an idiot-simple drum line and throws a fantastic, fuzzy mess on top of it). Overall, Berninger’s reached what could tritely be called “a new maturity,” which means he’s singing like he spent a cold winter holed up with a case of whiskey and the Johnny Cash catalogue, finally deciding that he didn’t need to scream to make himself heard. Boxer’s full of sparse, delicate songs, and Berninger’s one of our finest lyricists in the Dylan mold. When he sings in the first person we can be pretty sure it’s not “Matt Berninger” talking, that it’s not “Matt Berninger” who is “a perfect piece of ass, like every Californian” or a “birthday candle in a circle of black girls.” Using the microphone as a mouthpiece for these encapsulated short stories makes it exciting all over again, and (unlike someone like Leonard Cohen) these vignettes unwind over actual music. Is Boxer the Best Album Of All Time Ever End of Story? Who knows. But it is the most refined effort yet from some damn talented young gentlemen.

Boxer is out now. Buy it here.

Read the live review of The National here.