One of my main criteria for art is whether or not it produces a reaction. Did it actually make me feel something? Most things don’t. It takes a truly special work of art to pierce my general apathy.

Next I ask, if the piece was effective in the moment, did I want to return to it? Was the art well-constructed enough to keep my interest and, upon further examination, deep enough to reveal something new?

The National makes melancholy music. Despite being ostensibly a rock band, they’ve always been characterized by their smooth vocals and exact instrumentation—not exactly music to dance to. Instead, they excel at producing quiet music that draws you in, its aura of simplicity concealing a world of depth and precision. Their new album, “Sleep Well Beast,” provides a deeply moving, poignant meditation on the difficult nature of relationships.

The band is made up of two sets of brothers: Bryce and Aaron Dessner, on the guitar and piano, and Scott and Bryan Devendorf, on the bass and drums—each respectively a master of their craft. The fifth member, frontman and vocalist Matt Berninger, admittedly can’t even play the tambourine.

What’s particularly fascinating about The National’s lead vocalist is that while he’s surrounded by accomplished music savants, each with their own bands and projects, he instead uses an improvisatory free-associative technique to write his lyrics. The melding of these two methodologies shouldn’t work: Yale-trained musicians making music with a former graphic designer sounds like a recipe for disaster. And yet, The National’s discography is nothing if not arresting, authentic and exactingly-crafted.

The new album, “Sleep Well Beast,” doesn’t differ much from the band’s typical somberness. There are the spare piano riffs, the sharp and diffuse percussion, the instrumentation that starts out low and then crescendos. But there are a few moments of tonal difference: a rare guitar solo in “The System only Dreams in Total Darkness,” the surprisingly fast-paced “Turtleneck.”

A relationship narrative slowly emerges in “Sleep Well Beast.”

Berninger wrote the lyrics with his wife Carin Besser, and the emotional intimacy really shows.
“I’ve been talking about you to myself / Cause there’s nobody else,” Berninger sings in “Empire Line.” There’s an authentic conversation about the difficulties of maintaining a long-term relationship, and the depth behind the lyrics is powerful.

In one of my favorite tracks, “Guilty Party,” quiet synthesizers and drums build in the background while Berninger sings in the chorus: “I know it’s not working / It’s no holiday / It’s nobody’s fault / No guilty party / We just got nothing / Nothing left to say.” The combination of profound lyrics and precise, building instrumentation yields something that’s indicative of the whole album: a simple, lasting effectiveness.

When I think about married people, I tend to think of their relationship as something static and assured, but “Sleep Well Beast” conveys quite the opposite. The dysfunction, the inability to express oneself, and the resentment are all quite adeptly told. “So blame it on me / I don’t really care / It’s a foregone conclusion,” Berninger sings in “Carin at the Liquor Store.”

“Sleep Well Beast” tells a story about two committed people who are struggling with their relationship with one another—who still love each other, but are having problems. But, in the end, Berninger commits to continue struggling, despite the bleakness that the future might hold. In the second-to-last song, “Dark Side of the Gym,” he says, “I’m gonna keep you in love with me.”

This is what makes the album relatable, and I think, cathartic. Though it’s definitely melancholic, in the end we get the feeling that Berninger’s been able to adequately express these feelings he’s been having and make a decision about them. “I write sad songs as a way of staying above water,” said Berninger in an interview in The Independent. The National’s ability to perfectly conjure these universal feelings and then convey them in a striking way is why I think the album is worth listening to: though it’s sad, it’s cleansing, and I wasn’t demotivated. I felt better, relieved.

“I’ll destroy you someday, sleep well beast,” Berninger sings in the outro to the album’s final song, the synthesizers and strings and light drums perfectly complementing the vocals. It’s hauntingly beautiful.

“Sleep Well Beast” provides a soothing melancholia for troubled times. It made me feel sad, but also, after some reflection, purposeful. The band really excels at conveying this quiet, honest desperation, melding arresting vocals from Berninger’s baritone matched with spare, accomplished instrumentation from world-class musicians. After listening I wanted to sleep, to continue to ponder the profound depth that the album had conveyed.