Conor Oberst, under his group's name, Bright Eyes, outdid himself with his newest, Cassadaga.
The kid has made himself a name for being brilliant, bitter, depressed, and prolific, but nobody's heard much from him since 2005, with the dual releases of I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning (one of my favorites) and Digital Ash in a Digital Urn.
Cassadaga, so far, blends the best of both albums in a flavor that's digitally bluegrassy. I enthusiastically love it.
Listening to Bright Eyes is an experience like stepping out into an electric storm -- you're not quite sure if there's a center, and neither is he. He uses rich religious imagery wistfully, mockingly, angrily, reverently, and beautifully. The songs themselves, the rhythms, the chord changes, the melodies, are charged with something indefinable. Some kind of longing, enraged joy. It's an experience.
I haven't gotten past track 4 yet. There's so much buried in each song. So I listen to one, put it on repeat, and listen to it for a week. Over and over and over. (I can do this because it's a half-hour commute each way to work, and no one's ever in the car with me. I wouldn't do this to a passenger. Well, except for maybe Meg or Leigh Ann.) Then I move on to the next.
Sometimes I pop out the album and put in something else for awhile -- Sufjan, or Hem. Something soul-uplifting. Bright Eyes is one of those out-of-the-depths artists who can really drag you under after too long, but whose naked stare at the thing itself, wanting to know so badly what the thing is, is amazing.
And the beautiful thing about Cassadaga is that, after all this time of searching and raging and screaming, the first few tracks are about healing and peace.
Just so incredibly cool.
No comments:
Post a Comment