Bright Eyes - A Daydream

Omaha. It all starts here, in Nebraska's most populous city. Whether it's the people's attitude, the climate, or pure chance matters little. In Omaha, Saddle Creek is born, grows, develops, travels the world and builds a cult following. Then it comes back home and multiplies: Tim Kasher (Cursive, The Good Life) and Son, Ambulance. Azure Ray, The Faint, Now It's Overhead and others join the fold. That city no longer just shows itself off. It also illuminates those who know how to love it. And Conor Oberst is its blinding beacon: insolent and passionate, unrestrained and incredibly compelling. Talented. And well aware of it.

It's all a matter of DNA, it couldn't be otherwise. Plenty of fourteen-year-olds dream of forming a band. Few manage to pull it off completely. He did. He formed Commander Venus and wrote the first chapter of a story whose prologue had come the year before: while thirteen-year-olds in Italy in 1993 were finishing middle school, Conor was recording his first demo tape on his father's four-track. Not every father owns a four-track. Mr. Oberst's did. And yet they say family doesn't matter…

The story gets underway and for some time duly stays on the margins of the real American underground circuit. But only in part. Commander Venus record two albums, word starts to spread, and some begin betting on that kid's talent. He's one of those who believes in it himself. He has no choice: he has to write songs to feel alive: "I've written hundreds of songs. It's something I have to do all the time. Like breathing, eating; I need it to feel okay." And so Conor writes, blending folk with the indie leanings he carries inside, risking a juvenile sound for one simple reason: he is a teenager. He loves the lo-fi approach, because he likes it, sure, but also because: "...I used whatever equipment was available." It's a rare, uncontrollable urge, running a high risk of excess. To satisfy his needs he plays drums on a few 7"s with Park Ave, then decides to go it alone.

In 1997, on Saddle Creek (it would always be that way), A Collection Of Songs Written And Recorded 1995-1997 came out. It was originally meant to be released under his own name, but shyness led to the Bright Eyes moniker. For those who hadn't yet heard of him, this is the dawn: you can make out a kid who wants, through music, to "...understand the world and himself..." There's as much uncertainty as there is immense sentimentality in these songs. The voice is unpolished, unwilling to compromise as it swings from hushed whispers to desperate screams. The melody is clear, crystalline, yet smudged by a melancholy that would like to cloud it over. It doesn't manage to. The songs tend to break off, then start up again. This would become a defining trait of his style. The instrumental opening of "The Invisibile Gardener" is followed by episodes that already show his characteristic attitude (the stumbling gait of "Patient Hope In New Snow" and "I Watched You Taking Off") and demeanor (the booze-soaked vocals of "Saturday As Usual" and the tormented apathy of "The Awful Sweetness Of Escaping Sweat"). Overall, the quality isn't undermined by the sheer quantity (20 songs) or the inevitable unevenness: there's a whiff of K Records ("Failling Out Of Love"), ambiguous minimalism ("Exaltation On A Cool, Kitchen Floor", "Puella Quam Amo Est Pulchra"), loving lo-fi ("A Few Minute On Friday", "Supriya"), restrained singer-songwriter fare ("How Many Lights Do You See?", "A Celebration Upon Completion") and more straightforward material ("One Straw (Please)").

Conor loses his innocence in front of the whole world. For most people it happens only once, yet for him this would not be the last time. In 1998 his first true album, Letting Off The Happiness, came out, setting the stage for the uproar that followed. It became a sensation in American independent circles, and thanks to Wichita Rec., his name also made the rounds in Europe. It's a fully realized record, in which the self-indulgence (it closes with nearly twenty minutes of distorted guitar) becomes a trademark that doesn't scandalize those who love him, since it's an integral part of an unconventional persona. Those who can't stand him, on the other hand, find themselves holding, by chance, the only card they can play. This is Oberst's true lo-fi album, close in spirit to certain strands of American singer-songwriter music, yet personal and hard to pin down. Electric guitars, acoustic guitars, abrasive noise and keyboards across ten tracks that go beyond mere intimism, never lapsing into pitiful resignation. A late-millennium indie folk ("June On The West Coast" and "A Poetic Retelling Of An Unfortunate Seduction" become instant classics), elevated by an impulsive, dramatically passionate young man. The poetic communicative urgency of "If Winter Ends", the crushing "Padraic My Prince", the childlike sweetness of "Contrast And Compare" (a duet with the wonderful Neely Jenkins): a thrilling opening run of three, destined to carry on with the frenzied "The City Has Sex" (punk-folk?) which flows into the calm of "The Difference In The Shades", in turn absorbed by the surreal "Touch". Nor is a light coating of pop grime forgotten ("Pull My Hair"), while the closing "Tereza And Tomas" reveals an uncanny self-awareness in the songwriting. The whispers outnumber the screams, but it's the thin thread of desperation, always on the verge of snapping, that turns impulsiveness into an art worth showing the world.

Confirmation comes from the EP Every Day And Every Night (1999), where lyrics from someone not ashamed of being barely twenty are paired with instrumental arrangements as simple as they are captivating (the acoustic "A Perfect Sonnet" and the emotional pulse of "A New Arrangement").

This is the opening statement of the masterpiece, Fevers And Mirrors (2000), whose cover shows a mirror reflecting a hollow existential malaise. Anguish becomes consolation, passing through rebellious despair. These are stories of love, betrayal and broken souls. These are tales for lost hearts, delicate in approach and raw in their farewell screams. These are sung tears. As would often happen, friends from the Omaha scene lend a hand (this time, among others, Kasher and Knapp), for a work that inevitably came to define an era. Oberst is an Oldham close to home, brave enough to bare himself to anyone patient enough to listen. The impact of the opening "A Spindle, A Darkness, A Fever And A Necklace", the sonic twin of the closing "A Song To Pass The Time", is an alienating shiver that runs through the whole album, at times with a childlike gait, as in "The Movement Of A Hand", at others staggering along the roadside, as in "When The Curious Girl Realizes She Is Under Glass". "Something Vague" is the manifesto of a flawless album, "A Scale, A Mirror, And Those Indifferent Clocks" is its caress, "The Calendar Hung Itself" its slap, "Arienette" its emotional state. The relentless intensity can be desolate ("The Center Of The World"), impetuous ("Sunrise, Sunset") or frantic ("Haligh, Haligh, A Lie, Haligh"), yet it is always aware and sure of its own means (at the end of "An Attempt To Tip The Scales", to satisfy those who accuse him of arrogance, an interview is inserted). The beauty of Fevers And Mirrors is blinding. And sincere.

Barely a year passes before our man is back in circulation. Oh Holy Fools is a split work with Son, Ambulance (the trusty Joe Knapp). An expected confirmation spread across four songs. The usual broken voice, always teetering on self-destruction, steeped in a disarming simplicity: "No Lies, Just Love" reaches heights of emotion that other songwriters can't even come close to. In 2002 Conor, without neglecting his main project (the EP There Is No Beginning To The Story comes out), teams up with Denver Dalley (Statistics) to form Desaparecidos. Perhaps an extravagance, but nonetheless a project that puts plenty of similar bands in their place. Read Music Speak Spanish is taut indie-rock, bordering on outright emo-core, where he sings as always, just louder. The sound wanders between Dinosaur Jr., Pixies and At The Drive In (listen closely to "Man And Wife The Latter (Damaged Goods)" and "Manana"), with quiet/storm dynamics full of schizophrenic frenzy. The band behind him hits hard enough, the lyrics attack a certain brand of consumerist America, and for a moment the mind abandons total sensitivity and lets loose without restraint. Successfully so.

A few months later comes the new album under the Bright Eyes name. Lifted Or The Story Is In The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground is the union of youth and maturity. The melodic sensibility is more pronounced ("You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will"), while the folk side (classic on "Make Me War") blends with an almost baroque approach (the instrumental coda of "Don't Know When But A Day Is Gonna Come"). Strings take on a crucial role, embracing a country sound carried into the present ("Laura Laurent"). The trademark languor is captivating ("Lover, I Don't Have To Love"), as is the familiar dry resignation ("Waste Of Paint"), but things also burst into restrained epic grandeur ("False Advertising", arranged to the point of excess, then cut off halfway through with irony), dark impressions ("Lover I Don't Have To Love") and raw, untamed emotions ("Don't Know When But A Day Is Gonna Come"). On Lifted… there seems to be more clarity and less instinct (the double face of "Nothing Gets Crossed Out", minimal and bombastic at once), even though the foundations remain the same (the explosive immediacy of "Method Acting", the nursery rhyme for grown-up children "Bowl Of Oranges"). Grating to some, unconditionally wonderful to others. What's certain is the superb songwriting ability and the phenomenal melodic taste.

In 2004 comes the duet album with Neva Dinova, One Jug Of Wine, Two Vessels (Crank!), but above all the "Vote For Change Tour" with Bruce Springsteen and REM, ahead of the electoral showdown between Bush and Kerry. The concerts won't bring about a Democratic victory, but Oberst makes the most of the moment, and the singles "Lua" and "Take It Easy", previewing the double album due the following January (one acoustic, the other electronic), climb to the top of the Billboard charts.

The new releases are simply one more confirmation of everything outlined so far. Few artists would have played both cards at once; Conor did. Partly because certain judgments mean little to him, and presumably because from the outset he was convinced of the worth of both proposals. He wasn't wrong. I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning represents his true soul, made of songs written with extraordinary naturalness and perfectly complementing one another. Largely acoustic, it's a return to a purer folk, shedding some of the excesses of the previous record. A traditional form, at times country, that heightens tenderness and passion, amid drinking and tormented thoughts. "Lua" strikes exactly this way, with a trembling simplicity in its light and shade, and an unrelenting way of slipping into the folds of hearts eager to beat. It's the blueprint of an album that puts to rest the doubts of those who, with sinful naivety, thought it impossible to reach a songwriting standard like that of the past. The young man mocks them, moving with striking ease from more conventional moments ("We Are Nowhere And It's Now", featuring Emmylou Harris, as on "Landlocked Blues" and "Old Soul Song (For The New World Order)") to others where the writing takes on a Gordon Gano-like swagger ("At The Bottom Of Everything") or bursts with impetuous energy (the closing "Road To Joy").

An enviable genuineness that turns into fake experimentalism on Digital Ash In A Digital Urn, where, unlike its twin, individual tracks stand out more than the record as a whole. Only from this angle does it fall short, but going into detail, the level is still superlative. The risk of tying his typical vein to deliberately modern instrumental choices is smoothed over by convincing arrangements (with contributions from Jimmy Tamborello of Postal Service, and Nick Zinner of Yeah Yeah Yeahs) paired with his reliably sharp songwriting. Electricity and electronics take centre stage, but nothing is lost in terms of expressive grace. If some tracks won't go down in history, the beauty of "Gold Mine Gutted" (a sort of tribute to Cure, of whom Oberst has always professed to be a fan), the boundless vistas of "Hit The Switch", the auteur indietronic pop of "Take It Easy (Love Nothing)" and, in a different way, that of "Arc Of Time (Time Code)" become fixed points of what, for many, represents the contemporary state of a certain kind of music. Without any limits, with a healthy dose of indifference to expectations, the twenty-four-year-old from Omaha keeps flooding the world with a talent that today can't be found in anyone else. A river in flood, unlikely to be dammed in the years to come.

The following Cassadaga (2007) is rooted in the purest American songwriting tradition and crafted with meticulous, almost obsessive precision. It continues the evolution towards territory that's less niche and presumably less emotionally raw, yet still rich in inspiration. Just more formal.

What's certain is a now self-aware songwriting style, no longer needing any comparison to be defined. The rest is folk built to be listened to only as a whole, stripped of any easy, instant-gratification appeal.

Plenty of guests (M. Ward, John McEntire, Janet Weiss, alongside the usual Saddle Creek crew) for 13 tracks in which the melody avoids too many jolts: pale, surreal openings with a country flavour ("Middleman"), rock openings that are classicist to say the least ("Classic Cars"), the obligatory epic ("Clauradients") and restrained ballads fit for potential soundtracks (the closing "Lime Tree"). There's a dip back into the past, if only briefly, in the swagger of "I Must Belong Somewhere" and in the well-known "Four Winds", yet it's precisely in these moments that one realises how Oberst, today, is missing just a touch of a sense of proportion to fully convince — himself included.

Cassadaga is a good record, but the lack of yesterday's neurotic flashes of brilliance can only make one hope for a new blend, in which everything comes together to highlight qualities so obvious they could erase any negative impression.

Perhaps sensing the weight of the Bright Eyes moniker, Oberst sheds it and releases, in 2008, a new album titled simply Conor Oberst, credited alongside the Mystic Valley Band.

There are two main novelties: greater room for the electric side, and a keen attention to the band, which lends, especially in the arrangements, a greater sense of collective sound. In short, it doesn't come across as a Conor Oberst solo record but really feels like a collaboration with the group.

"Cape Canaveral" is the usual voice-and-guitar ballad heard a thousand times before, but the arrangements and above all the atmosphere make it a fine way to pass the time. Equally good is the closer, "Milk Thistle": even though the melody is recycled almost embarrassingly, that bassline and especially Conor's voice manage to convey a sense of fulfilment, of warm embrace. The nod to Dylan surfaces instead in tracks like "Moab" and, above all, "Get-Well-Cards".

Conor Oberst is a record for devoted fans, but it also shows an overall growth in its author, reflected both on the technical side (the polished arrangements, the increasingly sharp details) and on the emotional one.

If Conor Oberst wanted to be a kind of rebirth, Outer South (2009) was supposed to be the confirmation. The trouble is that the territory he's moving through is treacherous: the paths of folk-rock aren't infinite, far from it. So this new version of Conor ends up as a faded copy of dozens of bands that, over the last decade, have lived off the shoulders of electric Bob Dylan. And yet, Conor Oberst can still write songs. Take "Nikorette," with its powerful melodic line carried by the electric guitar. Or the solitary, introspective "White Shoes." Oberst's melodies are clean, effective, catchy. Then there are the arrangements: elaborate, intricate yet simple and never suffocating, leaving the members of the Mystic Valley Band free to do as they please. Take Nik Freitas's electric guitar on "Slowly (Oh So Slowly)." Or Nathaniel Walcott's organ on "Air Mattress." The interplay between the instruments and the voice, meanwhile, truly recalls the glory days of "Blood On The Tracks."

It's precisely these déjà-vus, though, that are also the record's most glaring flaw: Oberst and his band cruise on autopilot down roads whose scenery we already know all too well. Dylan comes inevitably to mind, but so does the name Wilco when we listen to "Nikorette," "I Got The Reason #2," "Difference Is Time." An energetic, well-written and well-arranged record. A shame, though, that it's packed with material already recycled, chewed over and reheated by every folk-rock band of the new millennium.

After joining the supergroup Monsters Of Folk in 2009, Oberst's return to the Bright Eyes moniker, eagerly awaited by fans and critics alike, carries the bittersweet taste of a farewell to what had for years been his favorite artistic creature. The last record released under the Bright Eyes name is The People's Key (2011), an album that signals a change of course and an enrichment in Oberst's music, though it greets us like walking into the apartment of an old friend we haven't seen in years.

The author of Nebraska distances himself from the warm, rugged folk of his recent work to embrace again the electronics-tinged pop he'd flirted with on Digital Ash In A Digital Urn. A metamorphosis that feels like a reaction to years spent boxed into the folk idiom — a genre that was perhaps too confining for Oberst's talent.

Everything feels both new and already heard in the Bright Eyes of the 2010s, starting with the spoken intro delivered by his friend Denny Brewer. But all it takes is Oberst's pained voice to feel moved all over again, as it always has over the years. And there are irresistible songs on this record too, even if perhaps not quite on the level of the past. While "Jejune Stars" sounds tailor-made to flood American radio, the best moments lie in the record's belly: from the Tweedy-esque "Haile Selassie" to the ethereal country-folk of "A Machine Spiritual (In The People's Key)," all the way to the irresistible pop one-two punch of "Triple Spiral"-"Beginner's Mind," and the piano ballad "Ladder Song."

But something seems to be missing. Not in the poetry of the lyrics, but particularly in the excess of ornamentation the music is burdened with, at times precious and lacking in bite. If this is indeed meant to be a farewell (it seems this was Oberst's last work under the Bright Eyes name), it's certainly not the best one he could have hoped for.

Ten years after Bright Eyes climbed the Billboard charts with the memorable double-single release of 2004, Oberst seems to find himself with a great future behind him. So, now married and having shed the cumbersome mantle of the hyper-prolific enfant prodige, he decides to take on the toughest challenge of all with his third solo album, Upside Down Mountain: measuring himself against his own past.

It's the musical clothing that marks the difference, bending the folk fervor of old toward a West Coast canon that sounds closer to neo-hippie fashion. A direction decisively shaped by Jonathan Wilson as co-producer, but also by the influence of his disciples First Aid Kit, longtime self-declared fans of Oberst, whose vocal harmonies appear on most of Upside Down Mountain's tracks.

It's no surprise, then, to find a Seventies vein running through nearly the whole record. And yet, the more elaborate the setting gets, the more emphasis seems to win out over restraint. Upside Down Mountain shows its best side in its leaner moments. And when acoustic bareness resurfaces on "You Are Your Mother's Child," Oberst seems to be aiming for a grown-up "First Day Of My Life," recounting the fulfillment of love at the moment of separation through the eyes of a parent watching their child grow, aware that one day they'll have to let them go their own way.

"I'm like someone who'd like to be a chameleon but can't quite manage it," Oberst reflects. "I'm always pretty recognizable, even when I think I've put on some costume. But I still enjoy putting on costumes." Once again, it's precisely that recognizability that is Oberst's strength. Even if he doesn't manage to recapture the inspiration of a couple of decades earlier, Upside Down Mountain at the very least redeems the disappointing results of the previous Outer South. But sooner or later Conor should try doing away with the costumes. Being yourself, sometimes, is the easiest way back to yourself.

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