Conor Oberst
Conor Oberst
Merge Records
By Mike Randall
Even at a mere 28 years of age, Conor Oberst has been a soldier of the road for just about half his life. He’s zigzagged through terrain most of us have only read about, played countries we’ll likely never visit and inherited stories we’ll never know. Hence, it’s fitting that in what’s being billed as his first solo album in 13 years, much of the subject matter the Omaha troubadour emits revolves around places. Whether longing for a locale, using it as a setting for the scene of a crime (or a love) or simply using legend as the background of an adventure, Oberst takes us on a voyage to destinations near and far, haunts real and imagined, places he’s probably never even been.
Musically, Conor Oberst isn’t all that far removed from his recent work in Bright Eyes, specifically, I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning. That shouldn’t come as much of a surprise because Bright Eyes is every bit the solo endeavor as this release, only his name is blurred in the lights by the moniker of a collective. Here, his name is front and center, although he’s supported by a crack-band of friends dubbed the Mystic Valley Band, a nom-de-plume homage to the village in Mexico where much of the record was recorded. The Mystics add a helping of barroom raunch to the music, churning out tight country-rock fills (The Tennessee Three-inspired solo on “I Don’t Want to Die (In the Hospital)” is not to be missed) and setting the stage for perhaps the most relaxed and upbeat Oberst affair to date. Their impact is so grand that it’s not far-fetched to say that the usually earnest Oberst might have even had a bit of fun this time out.
As Oberst sings of Mustangs revving, hurricanes swirling and beaches to be explored, you can almost feel his boyish hair blowing in the hot wind while traveling down a secluded road. “Sausalito” is the record’s most catchy tune, as Oberst channels the Dead’s take on “I Know You Rider,” singing of the safety and shelter of love, dreaming of moving to a house boat and letting “the ocean rock us back-and-forth to sleep.” He follows that up with “Get Well Cards,” which features his most impassioned vocals on the record as he laments about a soon-to-be-delivered letter above a bed of music that’s a cross between Music From Big Pink and Van Morrison’s “And It Stoned Me.” As usual with Oberst, the imagery is plentiful, as the wannabe bootlegger still has the capability to tell an entire story in a verse with lines like “The Gulf Water’s like a bathtub full of Epsom and lavender salt.”
Such warmth seems to come from his time in Mexico, which clearly treated him well. He wears that country’s roots on his sleeve during several moments, most notably the Spanish delivery of the soulful “Eagle on a Pole” and biographical lines like “I woke up in the age of wires/I fell asleep at the dusk of man” on the horribly-named-but-nonetheless-rocking “Souled Out!!!” Even when not directly singing about his temporary residence, Oberst sounds flat-out relieved to be allowed a respite for an occasional elementary approach to writing where the song can breathe and every word doesn’t have to paint an entire portrait. On “I Don’t Want to Die,” he lets the bar-boogie backdrop come to the forefront, even injecting some humor and urgency with lines like “Can you make a sound to distract the nurse/Before I take a ride in that long black hearse.” “NYC – Gone, Gone” is another instance of Oberst not taking himself so seriously, as he sings of leaving New York for Mexico above a bar-brawl groove that could be mistaken for a missing Dropkick Murphy’s track on the Departed soundtrack.
Fans who prefer Oberst’s folkie side need not be too concerned, however, as they’ll still have their fair share of chestnuts to choose from, especially the sandwich of tracks that bookend the record. The closer, “Milk Thistle,” is definitely the headliner, as Oberst sings of death and heaven: “This little world's too crowded now, and there's only one way out/An elevator ride through the tunnel towards the light.” There’s much of the same on the opener, “Cape Canaveral,” which finds Oberst gently warming up the listener through imagery-littered lines like “I watched your face age backwards changing shape in my memory” and “I felt your Poltergeist love like Savannah heat.” Of course, as in Bright Eyes, he’s able to translate that rustic vibe through a band setting, channeling Greendale-era Neil Young front-porch country-rock during “Danny Callahan,” a heartbreaking tale about the love a late boy possessed.
“There’s nothing that the road can’t heal,” Oberst sings on “Moab,” an amp-ed up and simplified dose of anthemic folk-pop that could easily fit on a Bright Eyes record. “You can’t break out of a cycle you were never in.” Clearly it’s Oberst at his most defiant, suggesting he’s tired of comparisons to the Dylan’s of the world and suggestions that he’s underachieved with records that didn’t necessarily fit in with what he’s “supposed” to be. He’s going to hit more often than miss (the pointless instrumental “Valle Mistico (Ruben Song)” and the cohesion-lacking “Lenders In the Temple” are the only strikeouts here), but no matter what he’s going to be out there, using the land as his muse, strumming the soundtrack of a traveling man, playing in a traveling band.
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