Every live release by the National comes with some self-sabotage. First they recorded the High Violet track “Sorrow” for six hours; then a straightforward but uninspired full-album rendition of Boxer; then a deliberately low-quality cassette release inspired by bootlegger Mike Millard. They’ve somehow gone a quarter-century without releasing a regular, gimmick-free live album, which makes a certain sense: The National took so long to hit their peak that they’re simultaneously in the prime of their popularity and their play-the-hits late period. While their early-aughts New York City contemporaries were, as Matt Berninger put it in the 33 ⅓ on Boxer, “doing some wild, clinging-to-adolescence vibe,” the National kept their heads down and toured relentlessly. “Can someone tell me how the National suddenly became the biggest band in the world?” an incredulous Brooklyn Vegan blogger asked when they sold out a five-night run ahead of Boxer’s release—because they’d never acted like it.

Instead, underdog status became a part of the band’s identity, particularly an infamous Alligator tour where the National played to half-empty rooms after the buzzier opening act, Clap Your Hands Say Yeah, left the stage. Their 2010s popularity coincided with an increased appetite for depression and dissociation in popular music; the artier and tenser the records got, the more people found them, until Aaron Dessner somehow became a successful pop producer. Live, all that tension is finally released: the five-piece, accompanied by Ben Lanz and Kyle Resnick on horns and auxiliary instruments, amp up every single song so that there’s always a climax around the corner. Berninger screams lyrics he only muttered in the recording booth; Bryan Devendorf comes out from underneath the drum machines; the Dessners turn up the distortion until the National actually sound like a rock band. Somewhere between the stage and Long Pond, their music gets smoothed out, even though simmering intensity is part of the appeal.

That makes Rome both a victory lap and a concession: the National admitting how big they’ve truly become. Recorded in the Italian capital’s Cavea at Auditorium Parco della Musica Ennio Morricone this past June, it’s a sprawling 21-track live record, with a setlist for die-hards waiting on the rock album the band has teased for years. Piano ballads like “Pink Rabbits” and “Light Years” are set aside in favor of early, heavier tracks from Alligator and one from 2003’s Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers. Even the ballads (“Our other kind of song,” Berninger once put it) end in triumphant fanfares and drum fills. Rome is an accurate and engaging, if not always flattering, display of the band least likely to break out of 2000s indie.

In keeping with the back-to-basics theme, the National reunite with longtime collaborator Peter Katis. Katis polished up beloved albums like Boxer and High Violet, but was largely absent from 2023’s First Two Pages of Frankenstein and Laugh Track in favor of Aaron Dessner’s Long Pond compatriot Jonathan Low (of Taylor Swift’s Folklore and Evermore). Japandroids’ Brian King has mused that Katis’ National records are often mixed like hip-hop, with drums and vocals taking priority, and that’s never been more true than on Rome. Devendorf’s drums overwhelm the rest of the band in the mix, as if Katis and company are overcompensating for years of synth dominance. The guitars aren’t just texture but an active part of the band, lending weight to Frankenstein highlights “Tropic Morning News” and the already energetic “Alien.” Every song is so maximal that some of the newer, quieter tracks suffer slightly: “New Order T-Shirt,” a charming ’90s-adult-alternative homage on Frankenstein, feels inappropriately epic.

The success of a given performance falls on Berninger, though, and his vocals are unfortunately inconsistent throughout. His baritone has become more nasal instead of deeper like his inspirations, sacrificing some of the gravitas. The “ahs” in the bridge of “Humiliation” sound flat, not just in pitch but in affect; the audience sounds more in tune than he does on “I Need My Girl.” When Berninger audibly enters the crowd, it’s endearing to picture his absurdly long mic cord and his Matt Wrangler trailing behind—but for those unfamiliar with the scene, it’s just as likely to sound as though he’s out of breath and off-key. His looseness can hamper the band in concert the same way Aaron Dessner’s tastefulness does in the studio, and this recording won’t convince anyone not already used to Berninger antics.

Rome’s more esoteric choices only emphasize the unlikeliness of this band getting this far. Cynical, misanthropic lyrics from Sad Songs for Dirty Lovers like “You could have been a legend/But you became a father,” from “Slipping Husband” (not present here, but also played on tour) feel strange coming from someone who’s seemingly managed both in the intervening years. Angst never quite fit the National the way sentiment did, so it’s jarring to hear them bring out Sad Songs’ dark, cryptic “Murder Me Rachael” after they’ve outgrown it. Alligator track “Lit Up” satirically imagines the band as an ephemeral hype act with a gun-toting bodyguard, but it doesn’t hit quite the same from the group that unironically wrote a song about its tour manager. These selections are reminders of a darkness the band has largely shed: You don’t write, “It’s a common fetish for a doting man/To ballerina on the coffee table, cock in hand” thinking you’ll one day sell out Madison Square Garden.

More than anything else, Rome shows how precise the National’s alchemy is: If Devendorf is replaced with a drum machine, if Dessner confines himself to the piano or quiet noodling, if Berninger rambles too far afield, the whole thing falls apart. It’s Alligator deep cut “The Geese of Beverly Road” where Rome best demonstrates the band’s collective power. On record, it’s patient but stiff, held back by a lo-fi drum recording; live, it’s the massive, sweeping anthem early believers always hoped it would become. At their best, the National turn lines like, “Our legs are open/Our hands are covered in cake/But I swear we never had any!” into life-affirming crowd chants. The intimacy of the original song is missed, but hearing thousands of people sing, “We’ll run like we’re awesome, totally genius” is a worthy substitute.