In America, people who grow up in snowy towns tend to follow one of two paths. One is the winter sports jock and the other introverted creative genius. Conor Oberst chose the latter.
Oberst is supposedly one of the collective of musicians known as Bright Eyes. But that's not really true. He is Bright Eyes, and what an apt name it is. The music and its composer are rapt with a wonder and glorious naivety that gurgles out tormented melodrama, chemical abuse and trying to figure out what role God plays (if any) in your life. And while his older counterparts sing about informed melancholy and bitter heartbreak, Oberst - just 22 - still lives in a soap opera of wistful puppy love and tear-stained letters.
The stage is decked for a county fair, splendid in its red and white bunting, while Oberst's dishevelled hair and magnetic doe eyes claim the spotlight. The band plays most of the triumphant 'Lifted Or The Story Is In The Soil, Keep Your Ear To The Ground'. However, while all the pieces seem to be there, somehow it's all not quite right. The raw, unfettered emotion that curls around your ear like a warm embrace on the album just doesn't gel live. On record, the tracks 'You Will. You? Will. You? Will…and 'Bowl of Oranges' are pearls in their oyster - burnished beauty out of bits of grit. But live, there's an unassuming shrug. Even the epic 'Let's Not Shit Ourselves (To Love And To Be Loved)' sounds like a cake without its cherry.
Perhaps Oberst feels a little out of his depth in the European urban setting, despite his safety net of 10 other band members. Still, he doesn't make best use of them live, since they tend to spend their time playing elemental riffs or sitting down waiting for Oberst to finish his solo laments. It seems as though the cello or flute are just ladled on like extra toppings on a pizza. It's not a case of really needing those olives, but hell they're there so chuck them on. The encore is equally disappointing, as the anticipated, foot-to-the-floor final set piece instead takes the shape of three indistinguishable songs of self-indulgent wailing.
In truth, all this hemming and hawing should not stop you from getting onto the Bright Eyes train. While the musical territory has been mapped before, his dewy fresh, homespun heartache lyrics and delivery are magic. Equally, the songs eschew classic structure and instead sound like short stories morphed into angsty lullabies. Yes, one day someone will break Conor Oberst's heart and he will turn into a man who no longer just enjoys a drink, but needs one. Until then, we could do a lot worse than to see the world through these pure, clean and bright eyes.
