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Rating: Conor Oberst is 24 years old (I hate this guy). Talented, sure. And incredibly arrogant: presumptuous enough to publish, some time ago, a collection of songs written when he was just 15. So full of himself that he presents himself, at the beginning of 2005, cold and scarce in releases, with not one but two CDs (I hate this guy).
How it turned out is easy to imagine: finding himself with about twenty songs on his hands, instead of doing what any sensible musician would do—choose ten and leave the rest in oblivion—he decided to split them between two releases. In defiance of a stagnant and sluggish music market, here they are: "I'm wide awake it's morning" & "Digital ash in a digital urn," twin albums already refined in the titles. Finding himself in the embarrassment of having to justify such a market move, he had a stroke of genius: give the two protégés production styles as opposite as possible: as much folk and minimalist the first as bombastic and electronic the second (I hate this guy).
After the success of the previous "Lifted," the young Conor earned the permission to meddle with myriad sonic toys in the recording studio. Of course, being a good intellectual wannabe, he does everything to hide it, but don't be fooled: behind the sparse and fragile sounds of the first CD, behind the Babel-like cathedral of electronic clamor of the second, is hidden a production as meticulously crafted as that of the latest Britney Spears (I hate this guy).
But let's go in order: "I'm wide awake it's morning"—the "Bright Eyes" album of the pack—continues in a sense the path started in 1998 with "Letting off the happiness": singer-songwriter style modeled after Bob-Dylan-From-Nebraska adjusted with epic turns, lengthy and intimate lyrics, nasal and whining voice. Here he decides, however, to abandon lo-fi recording, preferring an alchemical sound that rather recalls much ‘70s folk. He even calls Emmylou Harris, an old country star, for support. As if this were enough to make a CD... (I hate this guy).
Simple harmonic laps construct minimal structures; the rest is his effeminate voice, his life laid bare in whispers for 40 minutes of music. Let's listen to it:
"...You were born inside of a raindrop / I watched you falling to your death/ And the sun, well it could not save you / It had fallen down too, now the streets are wet..." "...But me I'm a single cell / On a serpent's tongue / There's a mighty field / where a garden was / And I'm glad you got away / But I'm still stuck out here / My clothes are soaking wet / From your brothers tears...".
These are just some snippets of the disarming confessions of this tiny mountain man (do I hate this guy?), who if you're not on your guard, can fool you, making you believe that what he does is sincere, that he’s not just a petulant poetaster speaking in metaphors, that maybe he is something more, a musician, perhaps.
Let's raise our guard again, then, and move on to the second CD.
"Digital Ash in a digital Urn" is a title that introduces well what awaits us: Ashes—the death—enclosed in an overloaded and deafening electronic Urn. The first track is even comprehensive: a powerful and geometric drum, wurlitzer and filtered guitars, the voice more metallic than usual, sampled external noises; it's a manifesto of intents, long and pretentious. For several seconds, you just hear him panting, huffing (I hate this guy).
When the voice comes, it whispers: "... death... data entry... ant hill law... encoded arc our common cause... drink liquid clocks 'til i see God... crystal display can't turn it off... shh... shh...
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
06 Hit the Switch (04:47)
I'm staring out into that vaccum again
From the back porch of my mind
The only thing thats alive
I'm all there is
And I start attacking my vodka, stab the ice with my straw
My eyes have turned red as stoplights, you seem ready to walk
You know I'll call you eventually, when I wanna talk
'Til then you're invisible
'Cause theres a switch that gets hit and it all stops making sense
And in the middle of drinks, maybe the fifth or the sixth
I'm completely alone at a table of friends
I feel nothing for them. I feel nothing, nothing
Well, I need a break from the city again
I think I'll ship myself back west
I got a friend there, she says, "hey, any time."
Unless that offers expired, I have been less than frequent
She's under no obligation to indulge every whim
And I'm so ungrateful, I take, she gives and forgives
And I keep forgetting it
And each morning she wakes with a dream to describe
Something lovely that bloomed in her beautiful mind
I said "I'll trade you one for two nightmares of mine
I have some where I die, I have some where we all die."
I'm thinking of quitting drinking again
I know I said that a couple times
And I'm always changing my mind, well, I guess I am
But theres this burn in my stomach and theres this pain in my side
And when I kneel at the toilet
And the mornings clean light pours in through the window
Sometimes I pray I don't die
I'm a goddamn hypocrite
But the night rolls around and it all starts making sense
There is no right way or wrong way, you just have to live
And so I do what I do and at least I exist
What could mean more than this?
What would mean more?
Mean more?
Ohhhh
07 I Believe in Symmetry (05:24)
Some plans were made and rice was thrown.
A house was built; a baby born.
How time can move both fast
and slow amazes me.
And so I raise my glass to symmetry
...to the second hand and its accuracy...
to the actual size of everything
the desert is the sand.
You can't hold it in your hand.
It won't bow to your demands.
There's no difference you can make.
There's no difference you can make...
And if it seems like an accident
a collage of senselessness
you weren't looking hard enough.
I wasn't looking hard enough at it
An argument for consciousness,
the instinct of the blind insect w
ho makes love to the flowerbed and dies in the first freeze. Oh, I want to learn such simple things...
the politics
no, history so what i want and
what i need can finally be the same.
I just got myself to blame...
leave everything up to fate
when there's choices I can make...
when there's choices I can make.
Now my heart needs a polygraph...always eager to pack my bags when I really wanna stay...when I really wanna stay...when I wanna stay.
The arc of time - the stench of sex...
The innocence you can't protect - each quarter note,
each marble step...
Walk up and down that lonely treble clef.
Each one and the next one to arrive.
The argument for consciousness,
the instinct of the blind insect
who never thinks not to accept it's faith...that's faith...
There's happiness in death.
You give to the next one.
You give to the next on down the line.
The levity of longing that instills each dream
inside my head...my morning water
down forget on silver stars, i wish and wish
and wish from one to the next one...
from one to the next right down the line.
You give to the next one.
You give to the next on down the line.
10 Light Pollution (03:16)
John A. Hobson was a good man
He used to loan me books and mic stands
He even got me a subscription
To the Socialist Review
Listening to records in his basement
Old folk songs about the government
"It's love of money, not the market"
He said, "these fuckers push on you"
And freedom yells, it don't cry
Whatever sells will decide
But there's no hell when you die
So don't look so worried
He got a night life, lost his day job
Pushing papers, swinging pendulums
Anything to serve a function
Or to occupy some time
You gotta earn this living somehow
You're good as dead without a bank account
But it's funny how alive he felt down
In that unemployment line
With all that trash at his feet
The pools of piss in the street
All of that filthy empathy
For the way we're feeling
The billboards shade
The flags they wave
The anthem was playing loud
The baseball game was letting out
And all at once
he saw the dust
And heard every tiny sound
Got in his truck and turned around
Drove out through the crowd and the cops
Drove out past that center mall
Drove out past that sickening sprawl
Out past that fenced in crawl
And maybe he lost control
Fucking with the radio
But I bet the stars seemed so close
At the end
At the end
At the end
11 Theme From Piñata (03:18)
Well I wish I had a parachute
Cause I'm falling mad for you
I can see the ground approaching now
But I'm not sure what to do
I feel like the piñata
Once you take a swing at me
If you could just crack the shell open
I think inside you would find something sweet
Well I hear you're like a hunter now
Your footsteps in the leaves
And I would gladly leave my hiding place
Yes I'm hoping to be seen
So let your arrow fly and sing
I'm well within your aim
Lay your traps for a thousand miles
And please don't let me escape
Winter came to Omaha
It left us looking like a bride
A million perfect snowflakes now
And no two are alike
So it's hard for me imagining
The flaws in this design
I know debris, it covers everything
And still I am in love with this life
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