Bright Eyes
Lifted

THE REVIEW

Conor Oberst is a guy from Nebraska who discovered, a few years ago, that he had a devil inside him.

Now, I believe that with the devil, the guy didn't have an easy life, and it always stayed there, burning inside him. However, it is well known that one can make a pact with the devil, and this is what Conor did.
From the enemy of God, he received talent, a flood of epileptic visions, whispered or violently played guitars, torrents of words. And like someone possessed, he gave body and life to the songs; in short, this guy is 23 years old, but my goodness, how much he has lived.

"Lifted" once again boasts a very fine graphic design, in the style of an ancient book (let's remember the splendid mirror of the previous work, a metaphor for "all that you see is always what you are").
It isn't the masterpiece "Fevers and Mirrors," agreed, still unreachable, but it retains all the power and delicacy that mark Oberst's visionary talent. Perhaps the gift of prolixity has broken its banks, and at times it seems like one is drowning in the river of words.

But "Lover, I don't have to love" is a gem that should be broadcast in world stereophony, pure brilliant heartache; "Bowl of Oranges" and "Waste of Pain" are pure poetry, and the young man seems to have also gotten comfortable with the orchestra.

He can only grow, and in the meantime, we can start appreciating the lack of major "blunders," in the affectionate sense of the term: where in the first album there were 20 minutes of distorted guitar and in the second a paranoid interview with himself (!), now one can finally enjoy the work until the end of the last song.