Bright Eyes (October 30, Blue Note)
“The Fool’s Gold Mouthpiece”

I must admit, I don’t know every word to every Bright Eyes song. I don’t even know every Bright Eyes song. However, as a casual fan of Conor Oberst’s Lifted, I found myself ready to celebrate KCOU’s birthday and wallow in some sad bastard rock. After all, Rolling Stone suggested that Lifted sounded something like a Bob Dylan record produced by Brian Wilson in 1966. Unfortunately, that mythical record didn’t translate so well onto stage. This show did have its moments. But it also fell under the dreaded heading of a show in which the guy on stage (Oberst) was very drunk and the guy in the audience (yours truly) was not. My fault? Perhaps. But not entirely.

In the end, I was left with the impression that Oberst was a guy who didn’t really care whether I had a good time or not. A guy who was more than capable of delivering an effective hour-plus of rock ‘n’ roll. And, most of all, a guy who said, “Here you go, this is as good as you’re gonna get, you guys are indie rock-types so suck it up and clap. Or don’t.” I guess his is the sort of to-hell-with-you attitude for which “rock stars” are (in)famous and, at times, lauded. However, the truly great performers let you, the audience, have just a taste of who they are. They know that, by the nature of the business, any sustained measure of success is predicated on the performer exposing just a little of himself to the audience. They empathize with his plight. They see themselves in his songs, and they know that’s o.k. because they like him. They wish they were cool enough to hang out with him, for God’s sake. Unfortunately, I did not leave the Bright Eyes show with that feeling.

Instead, I saw a self-centered kid stumble from mumbled song to mumbled song while relying on his backing band to make something of the presentation. And, often, they did just that. Rock-steady cello, a dusting of trumpet, and lilting flute all conspired with keyboards, guitars, and percussion to produce an indie rock ensemble the like of which we don’t often see in these parts. Songs that began with loose finger-picking and garbled lyrics culminated in brave climaxes of studio excess that were glorious on stage. But with an apathetic front man at the helm, does any of that matter? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t expect every performer to be a rabid Mick Jagger. (In fact, I happen to think that Bob Dylan’s stage presence and singing have been honed to perfection here at the dawn of the 21st century.) But, come on, I’ve got to believe that the singer at least believes in what he’s writing and singing. And if he’s uncomfortable on stage, it’s got to be because he’s as insecure and fragile as any of us are, not because he’d rather be sleeping or drinking. Maybe all of this is wrong and reflective of my relative ignorance of Bright Eyes’ music. Maybe when I sit down and listen to the record in its entirety I’ll understand exactly why it was cool that Oberst twice started and stopped a song before giving up completely. Had he then ripped into an explosive version of a song like Radio Radio that was exquisitely in tune with its time and place, I would understand his relevance. Instead, he half-heartedly waited for his backing band to reemerge and bail him out, yet again. And nobody likes someone who chooses the easy way out.

- Aaron Watson