Its three in the morning and the darkness offers no relief from the humidity that hangs over the city. The smell of alcohol and perfume lingers. Hipsters and freaks mill about oblivious to the time. A smoke would be nice. Music seeps sensually from an underground apartment. It sounds like whiskey-soaked tobacco and new wave. Like romance and leather. It sounds like Brooklyn, with a little bit of the flat fields of Ohio. It sounds like The National.
All five members of The National grew up in Cincinnati and knew of each other, but didn't connect until all had moved to Brooklyn in... Read More