Among the annals of indie rock, there are few bands like The National.

Despite the rich, almost folksy songwriting, the songs are accompanied by angular electric guitars and rushing drums rather than an earthy, acoustic-based sonic palette. Despite the kinetic energy of the band, singer Matt Berninger’s voice rarely strays from a rich baritone, avoiding the yelps and howls that most frontmen would employ when paired with a band of such energy.

High Violet, their fifth album (which celebrated its tenth anniversary this week!) was my entry point to the band, and what an entry point it is. Across the eleven tracks, it showcases everything that the National does better than anyone.

I first discovered the National while visiting Vertigo Records in Grand Rapids, Michigan. As I was browsing the shelves, I was struck by a track playing in the store. The drums rushed along with an almost post-punk urgency, dark guitars matching its pace. And yet the vocalist was resolute, refusing to be swayed into panic as he spoke of debts and swarms of bees. I asked the shop owner what it was: “It’s the National’s new song, Bloodbuzz Ohio.”

A few weeks later, I walked into my local shop and saw it on the wall. I hadn’t done much further exploring, but when I saw the cover, it triggered the memory of how strongly that track hit me. I found it on the tracklisting and bought it sight unseen.

Initially, I felt a little disappointed. Not by the quality of the songs—they’re all excellent. But after the few initial listens, I decided that it sounded more like a greatest hits compilation than a proper album. It was just eleven great songs that didn’t feel like they had much of a through line.

But then I realized: writing eleven songs so good that the album containing them sounds like a greatest hits is an achievement. Once I realized that and got over my ridiculous insistence that the album needed to have a concept or whatever crap I was on, it grew on me in a huge way.

For my money, what really makes this record great though, is the arrangements. Like I mentioned earlier, from a songwriting standpoint, these tunes sound like they could have been played on an acoustic guitar with some assorted accompaniment. Matt’s voice almost demands arrangements that are just as rustic and organic. But the National refuses that, and to great success. The instrumentalists—two sets of brothers, the Aaron & Bryce Dessner and Bryan & Scott Bevendorf—instead lean heavy into post punk and indie rock, the rhythm section playing angular, urgent rhythms while the guitars explore rich sonic textures, pianos keeping things grounded. These arrangements are occasionally joined by a large cast of brass and string players creating an absolutely enormous sound.

And it pays off: “Terrible Love” opens the record with a sigh, heavily effected guitar chords building a world for Berninger’s longing voice. A minute and a half in, the mood changes entirely as Bryan Devendorf’s drums enter at double time. “Sorrow” features rushing hi hat and acoustic guitar strums as washes of strings and ambient guitars swell to massive size. “Little Faith” feels almost dirgelike until Bryan’s drums hijack the tempo again. “Afraid of Everyone” is a dark, slow burn track that climaxes with an explosion of drum blasts and guitar distortion (it also features the incomparable Sufjan Stevens on background vocals). “Runaway” is a rare break in the energy relying on fingerpicked acoustic guitars, the atmosphere punctuated by distant horns.

I would be remiss if I didn’t bring up the lyrics, provided by Berninger and one or both of the Dessner twins, occasionally joined by another collaborator, such as Berninger’s wife Carin Besser (hey, he did marry!) or Padma Newsome, who also wrote most of the orchestral arrangements alongside Aaron. Through the album, the lyrics explore the dark side of modern life: Berninger’s voice battles against depression, substance abuse, the anxiety of being a father, sexual politics, the recklessness of youth, and general ennui. He suffers an existential breakdown at a pool party. He burns down a field. He turns into a zombie and eats brains. These images are punctuated by one liners that embed their hooks deep into the listener and pull tight. “It takes an ocean not to break.” “I told my friends not to worry.” “I was afraid I’d eat your brains.” “Famous angels never come through England.” They’re just abstract enough to feel universal without slipping into obscurity.

High Violet is a truly excellent record. And despite the richness of their catalogue before and since, the warm, jealous embrace of this record has kept me from straying too far away from it. Maybe someday I’ll fix that, but as long as I have High Violet, I’m in no rush.