It’s the critical-hype kiss of death no singer-songwriter deserves: the dreaded “next Bob Dylan” stamp. Inevitably, any talented young gun who dares to strum an acoustic guitar and turn a phrase will have to endure the awful title. The strongest survive and move on – Leonard Cohen, Loudon Wainwright, Bruce Springsteen and Jeff Tweedy all seem no worse for the wear.
And for a while, it looked as if Conor Oberst – better known to us as the leader of Bright Eyes – would be able to outlast the lazy hyperbole of his staunchest supporters. With I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning, he solidified Bright Eyes as a force to be reckoned with in the rise of the new Americana. Though plagued with cheesy production and equally hokey lyrical moments, 2007’s Cassadega pushed Oberst forth as one of the scene’s most bankable players.
Ever the prolific artist, Oberst is back a year later as a solo act on the unassumingly titled Conor Oberst. Less stylistically strained than his previous Bright Eyes release, the album offers plenty of breezy, ’60s folk-rock vibes. By toning down his idiosyncrasies, Oberst sacrifices a large part of what sets him apart from the artists in his record collection.
Musically speaking, Oberst’s fourth solo release is fairly enjoyable without making too much of an impression. (Note: The occasional flutter of a Hammond organ hardly qualifies as compositional nuance.) To his credit, Oberst could not have timed the release much better. Placed on an iPod, the album is ideal for an August day at the beach; perfectly complemented by a trashy romance novel, a Corona Light and other mildly satisfying, instantly forgettable staples of summer.
There are flashes of American Beauty-era Grateful Dead (“Sausalito”) sans the classic interplay of Robert Hunter’s words against Jerry Garcia’s studio-compacted electric leads. “Danny Callahan” treads into the mellower territory of fellow Obama-supporter Wilco, a much more natural fit for Oberst.
His post-No Depression country-and-folk grooming threads through from beginning to end, giving the Mexico-recorded songs an appropriately dusty sound. But endless highways and shit-kicking twang have been done a thousand times before, a thousand times better. Aside from the rambling standout “I Don’t Want to Die (In the Hospital),” Oberst’s penchant for insipid, self-consciously “witty” lyrics drag the songs down one after the other.
The trouble starts early and doesn’t let up on opener “Cape Canaveral.” “Please, please, please Sister Socrates/ You always answer with a question/ Show some kindness to a petty thief,” Oberst sings on the first, but not worst, of his clunky ballads.
On the sun-stroked “Get-Well-Cards,” pretension alone separates Oberst from the likes of Jack Johnson. Of course, it’s unreasonable to expect Oberst to charge every song with the furious indictment of “When the President Talks to God” or the chilling fatalism expressed on “At the Bottom of Everything.” But as a writer heralded as one of the best of his generation, Oberst simply cannot get away with being empty and mindless.
The “circus tigers,” “starving children” and “pink flamingoes” never add up to the personal loss Oberst tries to communicate on “Lenders in the Temple,” the singer’s poor emulation of an Elliott Smith tune. Sorrow just comes easier to some than others. And it becomes painfully obvious when Oberst writes outside of his comfort zone.
“If I go to heaven, I’ll be bored as hell/ Like a crying baby at the bottom of a well,” he laments on the plodding finale, “Milk Thistle.” Oberst has never been afraid to wear his emotions on his sleeve; for many, it’s a large part of the Bright Eyes appeal. The guy ranges from pissed off to borderline nihilistic, and he does everything in between pretty damn well.
So maybe it’s his already angst-saturated tone of voice or just something he hasn’t been able to fully embrace, but Oberst cannot write sentimental without coming across sappy. The personal plights of Conor Oberst wind up feeling incredibly false in the face of the more universal woes he has expressed as part of Bright Eyes.
Oberst is far too young and talented to already be considered a casualty of the next-Dylan legacy. But since 2005, his studio output has slipped considerably. Dylan had his weaker moments too – before Blood on the Tracks and Desire, there were Self Portrait and Dylan. If Oberst’s underwhelming self-titled album is what the artist needs to get back on track, so be it.
But one way or another, it’s a wake-up call.
zherrm@umd.edu
RATING: 2 1/2 out of 5 stars
