Being a Brooklyn indie-rock band in 2007 means many things. Most obviously, of course, it means you can't afford Manhattan real estate -- but it also means you're proud of that fact. It means you shower less often than you should, probably out of some shame that being a New York artist no longer means suffering a cold-water flat. It means Sufjan Stevens is your neighbor.

To shorthand, it means there's a lot of potential for you to be pretty annoying, especially when one throws in the musical stylings you likely favor: you record in a loft; you have a newfound devotion to nerdy instruments (bassoon, French horn); you sing like you need a cup of coffee.

But there's a reason you do those things, and it's that bands like the National have made the whole Brooklyn mash hugely appealing. The group's outstanding 2005 effort, Alligator, played like a 718 response to Interpol's distinctly 212 brand of indie-rock. The record kept Interpol's anxious monotone vocals, lyrical abstraction and (occasionally) their dark and sinewed guitars. Yet it was also blissfully louche and fumbly, with drums shuffling towards naptime and the angst lightened by a wry humor. The modern Brooklyn-Manhattan relationship had been explained succinctly.

The group's new record, Boxer, is even more broken and brooding, with less pitched rock and more focus on textured chamber-pop. It's also quite possibly superior to an album that was pretty darn excellent.

"Fake Empire" is a stellar lead track and an ideal establishing shot. It's always risky to get too political with indie-pop; tedium is a lurking threat. But "Empire" pulls off a subtle modern unease. As a lo-fi piano rings hollow, Matt Berninger's gravelly vocals chart a quiet all-American poem; the syllabic rhyme of "making pies" (apple, of course) and "fake empire" is tidy and sharp.

Later in that song, a tide of instruments -- most audibly a trumpet and a skuzzy electric guitar -- arrives for texture. The appearance of a loose-limbed chamber group recalls Sufjan's Illinoise, and it becomes a strong theme on Boxer. In "Squalor Victoria," restless drums are caressed by a thick string section. They keep the track swollen with soul even as it remains jumpy and on edge.

The Sufjan aura makes even more sense than it seems. The statesman himself turns up playing piano on two of Boxer's best tracks. "Racing Like A Pro" is a wounded stunner about growing old, its fluttering guitar and plunking piano sounding like aging itself. "Ada" is fuller and prouder, with the roiling chamber effects puffing up an "empty tuxedo."

Both of those songs -- and nearly every one here -- highlight what the Brooklyn chamber-indie template can find when at its best. For all their aversion to bathing and ratty T-shirts, these artists are achieving a special word, and that is elegance.

By Jake Blaine