Conor Oberst
Conor Oberst
(Merge, 2008) 

It’s no review of a Conor Oberst record without bringing up the ongoing critical discourse of his career thus far and the looming questions of whether or not he will remain indispensable over time. If there’s a lasting artist or another adorable face in front of us, if he’s really our generation’s standalone spokesperson as he’s been so often compared, if he can shed the somewhat whiny adolescence of his early Bright Eyes days to mature into a vital, elder singer-songwriter statesman—these questions seem ever suspended above each song he writes. Having already had a profound impact on a mass level over the years while also generating the appropriate amount of backlash, Oberst remains in a position where he’s looked upon with grave critical eyes feasting on his very evolution. And oddly enough, in a way, all of these prevailing variables become almost meaningless as they alone keep him in a position of constant relevance. Each time there will be those who love what he does and those who don’t, and the debate will go on to orbit infinitely in people’s minds. Of this, I feel sure.

While he’s performed for and under various monikers (Commander Venus, Park Ave., Desaparecidos, and Bright Eyes) Oberst now steps out from behind a band name to release a self-titled record with his birth-given name. New label, too. Thirteen years ago he was releasing solo material as a necessary means to get his music heard (on cassette tape, no less). Now the move to go at it solo again appears to be out of necessity—like a snake, he’s shedding old skin as part of the growing process—and, according to this, his latest release, he’s left behind more than his outer coat.

Last year’s Cassadaga was an album that called for another go at accessing Oberst’s musical progress and transformation—at 27 he approached an age simply begging him to move on from angst-filled, early adulthood complaints and idealistic attacks at the world. And that’s not to mean we were ever looking for him to give them up completely, but rather mutate them beyond empty booze-fueled threats and into a more pragmatic view that’s as universal to his maturing listeners as his own coming-of-age was in their own right over the better half of the last decade. While I think there were moments on Cassadaga where we could all see him lunging with real promise towards his own unique take on the grand tradition of folky Americana, there wasn’t enough there to solidify this with absolute assuredness. Not to mention it was also delivered as a very slick, illustriously produced album, so much so that it ultimately implied he was potentially running the risk of becoming, not stale, but overly polished—something that doesn’t vibe well with a musician whose central thrust is heartbreak and damage.

Right from the start, this is an engaging album. “Cape Cañaveral” is one of those songs with the ability to make everyone in the room shut up. I’m extremely afraid, however, that it’ll end up on a VW car commercial. Lines like “You’ve been a father to me / In 1960s speak / In the comatose joy that we’re on TV / While the mountain’s side was shining / Wild colors of my destiny / I’ve watched your face age backwards, changing shape in my memory / You told me victory’s sweet / Even deep in the cheap seats” is proof positive of why Conor Oberst is compared to Dylan, why he’s not just another pretty boy singing sentimental, yet inconsequential songs. His ability to take everyday events and turn them into something worth romanticizing reassures me, at least, that my little blip on the radar of existence can be artful and poetic, too. I understand that sounds kinda, well…um… gay, but that’s really the only way I can describe it. 

Even the ‘middle of the road’ songs on this record, like the Dead-inspired “Sausalito” or the apologetic “Get-Well-Cards”, seem to showcase Oberst in a new way, highlighting him perhaps in a more mature yet no less desperate light. There’s dark matter to be found all over this record. His unsettled mental state fleed to spend time amongst the lingering aura of some remote Aztec mountain villa and these factors coalesced into the perfect prescription for letting Oberst’s music escape from within. “Lenders in the Temple”, for example, feels particularly pivotal as it’s dense with metaphor approximating heartbreak and the subsequent confusion of where to place blame once the feeling of love doesn’t want to fade: “A bitch in heat, the alpha male / Not something she’d ever tell / Except when she got deathly high / And out it came, like summer rain / Washed the cars and everything / Felt clean for just a little while.”

These intense moments are broken up with rollicking tunes like album single about a sick boy “Danny Callahan”, the somewhat joking track “I Don’t Want to Die (In a Hospital)”, its potentially sly reference to an old Ramones tune, the one-minute song “NYC-Gone-Gone” with its marching beat and repeating lyrics “Gone, gone from New York City / Where you gonna go with a head that empty? / Gone, gone from New York City / Where you gonna go with a heart that gone?”, and “Souled Out!!!”, a tune about knowing that even if you did believe, you’re not getting into heaven anyway.

I think the two standout tracks on the album, however, are “Moab” and album closer “Milk Thistle.” “Moab” I like for personal reasons, as I’m a big fan of driving… short distances, long distances, cross-country, to the market, alone or with people, and to hell with gas prices. Oberst sums it up when he sings this ode to leaving it all behind, “There’s nothing that the road cannot heal / Washed under the blacktop / Gone beneath my wheels / There’s nothing that the road cannot heal.” “Milk Thistle” is a death-obsessed song, both in the physical and literal sense. Milk thistle is a drink to help give relief to a rotting liver… too much booze to deal with all that’s so fucked about life: “Newspaper, newspaper / Can’t take no more / You’re here every morning / Waiting at my door / I’m just trying to kiss you / And you stab my eyes / Make me blue forever / Like an island sky / And I’m not pretending that it’s all okay / Just let me have my coffee before you take away the day.” But then also there are moments where lyrics reveal some self-righteous courage in the face of it all: “I’m not scared of nothing / I’ll go pound for pound / I keep death on my mind like a heavy crown.” 

The trip down to a makeshift Mexican studio boded extremely well for the overall aesthetic of Conor Oberst. With it comes the refreshing confusion of darkness, the pleasant if not unexpected humor and light, and the heady truths needed to be revealed for music like his to truly thrive. Even if he’s writing road songs that have this way of leaving the past in the dust, he’s also fiercely living the present, a constant theme throughout which vies for the old adage that it’s not about the destination, but the trip. This is Oberst’s hour and his turning point towards a musical mainstay.

Listen: Various Tracks [at myspace.com]

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