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Acoustic Bright Eyes is dead – long live the new Bright Eyes! I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for old Oberst, but Cassadaga was my favorite yet (I’m in the minority on this I know), and I love the direction Oberst and the band are going in here, which captures the essence of the new album pretty well. The People’s Key officially drops on the 15th but is already available for streaming over on NPR here.
A collection of ten records from the year that I either felt weren’t up to some of the incredible hype they received, were letdowns from a band’s previous release, or just ended up as personal disappointments. It’s been a great year and I couldn’t ask for any more excellent albums, but there’s always going to be some bad with the good, and 2009 wasn’t any different.
10.
Hey, I love Vampire Weekend and Ra Ra Riot just as much as the next pretentious indie douche bag, but this side project, between VW’s Rostam Batmanglij and Riot’s Wes Miles, was an ill-advised dip into Auto-Tuned-to-hell pop mania that only reinforced the stereotype that side groups are where bad ideas go to die. Unable to decide whether it wants to be unironic pop or tongue-in-cheek hipster mockery, it fails miserably in both respects.
9.
For their fifth album and first proper one after their breakthrough record Young Folks, Peter Bjorn & John inexplicably decided to tone down the sunny Swedish indie pop that made them famous and go all in on a bunch of dark synths and bad drum machine beats. The hooks are still there, but they’re mired under a layer of minimalist bleeps and boops and undercooked lyrics. While an admirable effort, Living Thing ultimately collapses under the weight of its own experimental tendencies.
8.
Time to Die is a good record, but after last year’s ridiculously awesome The Visiter, this release seems more like a stopgap effort or, worse, an attempt to cash in on their blogosphere hype while it still lasts. There’s nothing wrong here, but it pales in comparison to its predecessor and never really brings anything new to the table.
7.
Tinted Windows debut should’ve blown the roof off power pop, considering all the players involved. Unfortunately it turned out just the opposite, a rote piece of work that is enjoyable for a spell but largely reveals itself to be less than the sum of its parts.
6.
Judging from Jay-Z’s habit of following a decent record with a subpar one, it should come as no surprise that The Blueprint 3 doesn’t match up to the American Gangster soundtrack, but it is a bit shocking that this may be Hova’s worst record since The Blueprint 2. Lackluster rhymes, vanilla production, and guest stars who routinely outshine the host, it’s a middling affair by a talent who seems content to let the young guns all pass him by.
5.
Fresh off the riveting success that was his first solo album not under the Bright Eyes moniker, Conor Oberst decides to celebrate with his buddies in the Mystic Valley Band, and, less than a year after his self-titled, results in Outer South. And that’s exactly all it sounds like: a celebration that tends to find Oberst and friends fucking around in the studio and throwing together an over-long collection of half-baked Americana. Too much Mystic Valley Band, not enough sober Oberst.
4.
The hype surrounding this album was immense, but for all its intriguing edges and occasional flashes of clarity, it still remains an impenetrable mess of an album. From the discordant singing and random instrumental flourishes to the hyperactive song structures and lack of anything resembling a natural flow, it’s an album that tries too hard and ends up as merely a confusing jumble of experimental ideas.
3.
A record that immediately drew me in with the fantastic “Two Weeks” and whetted my appetite for more with “All We Ask” and “Cheerleader,” I was ultimately disappointed with the overall results. It’s not that Veckatimest isn’t a good record; I can appreciate the meticulous songwriting and sharp production, as well as the rustic sort of experimental folk Grizzly Bear have mastered. But the album drags on for far too long without the kind of persistent hooks that the above songs promised, resulting in an album far better at lulling me to sleep than anything else.
2.
Another fine example of artists at the top of their game coming up woefully short to matching the high standards now expected of them. Til The Casket Drops is, in regards to most drug-happy rap releases of the year, an excellent release, but considering the massive success of Hell Hath No Fury and the three years the Thornton brothers have had to work on a follow-up, it still comes up dreadfully short to what I’ve come to expect from Clipse.
1.
I can understand what the Lips were trying to do here. I can even praise them for their boldness and persistent pushing of their own boundaries. But do I have to enjoy it? While I really, really, really wanted to say yes, multiple listens eventually rendered it impossible. A grand album that is undeniable in its scope and ambition, it’s also a schizophrenic beast of a record that shunned my attentions more often than it grabbed me. In trying to redefine music, Embryonic lost me in its own meandering world, one that I struggled to get immersed in and which ultimately repulsed me.
Monsters of Folk – Monsters of Folk
The announcement of Monster of Folk’s debut album this year instinctively drew a knee-jerk reaction of dread from me, despite its pristine indie pedigree. After Tinted Windows defined the term “novelty supergroup” yet again for the year 2009, I was just a little worried that ego and the sense of “fun” that routinely leads artists to ill-advised collaborations would cause the sum of talent here to be considerably less than its individual parts. Luckily for me and fans of the people on display here, Monsters of Folk works more like a well-oiled, cohesive “best-of” collection of each, rather than a clash of styles or a neutered effort of bland, mutually masturbatory jam sessions. Made up of Conor Oberst (Bright Eyes, Mystic Valley Band), M. Ward (She & Him), Jim James (My Morning Jacket), and Mike Mogis (producer extraordinaire), Monsters of Folk’s terrible title belies its eminently accessible nature.
Unlike, say, James Iha and Taylor Hanson, Monsters of Folk’s previous bodies of work definitely share a sort of kinship. From Oberst’s post-Cassadaga work, to James’ obviously country-ish bent, to Ward’s folksy, ‘60s-pop-worshipping solo releases, it seems almost preordained that this foursome would eventually find each other, with Mogis’ instrumental wizardry and understated production serving as the glue of the album. Best of all, despite its 15-song length and influences-on-their-sleeves style, Monsters of Folk never comes off as a gimmick, or, worse, a mere compilation. Oberst never dominates one track and then disappears on the next; James’ doesn’t make one song his personal My Morning Jacket clone and then let someone else take the spotlight on the next. Rather, Monsters of Folk melds them all into what consistently feels like a natural record, one where new listeners might be surprised to learn of the members’ disparate backgrounds.
“Dear God (sincerely M.O.F.)” does start things off pretty shaky, and you’d be forgiven for thinking it was an Evil Urges outtake, and a terrible one at that. But the bad taste is quickly wiped away with the irresistible, fuzzy energy of “Say Please,” where the gorgeous but clearly distinct harmonies gives the song a true group feel, a ‘la Crosby Stills and Nash (or, dare I say it, the Beatles). From there on it’s a veritable treasure trove of woodsy, vibrant music, a grab bag of styles notable not for their differences but by how well they mesh as one. Hear Ward and company burn it on up tempo alt-country rocker “Whole Lotta Losin;’” hear Oberst do his best Johnny Cash impression on the fingerpicked western-flavored “Man Named Truth;” best of all, hear all three of them play off each other on the restless build-up of highlight “Baby Boomer.”
It’s easy to distinguish between the three vocalists, from Ward’s smoky, soulful vocals to Oberst’ wobbling entreaties to James’ immediately identifiable falsetto, yet their effortless harmonies and vocal interplay is sharpened to a lovingly refined point. Musically the band’s closest touchstones are Ward’s last two solo efforts, as songs like the woodsy “Goodway,” “Magic Marker” and many more mimic the kind of ‘60s pop/Americana folk pastiche he’s strived for, although Oberst’s Mystic Valley influence is well represented here (his inexplicable Mexico fascination continues on “Temazcal”). But far be it from them to discriminate – songs like acoustic shuffler “Map of the World” reflect Fleet Foxes’ multi-part harmonies and Appalachian character, while “The Right Place” sounds like vintage, It Still Moves-era My Morning Jacket. The record as a whole continues to build up its own identity as it goes on, thanks in large part to Mogis’ eclectic production and the refusal of the tracks to fall into a stylistic rut.
Sure, it’s a little long, and the opening and closing tracks are two of the worst bookends for an album in recent memory, but perhaps that’s just merely a testament to the strength of the material in between. After hearing Monsters of Folk for the first time it’s easy to write it off as a success in its genre and a (huge) success for the supergroup ideal, but repeated listens show it as much more than that. Songs like “Say Please” or “Baby Boomer” practically sound like they were recorded in a live setting, the band’s energy a nearly palpable feeling throughout. Monsters of Folk is a great album, and it achieves this excellence not with fancy studio tricks, particularly amazing songwriting, or virtuoso musicianship, but with that which so many other supergroups have lacked: a refreshing passion for the material, the kind of passion that is impossible to ignore.
Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band – Conor Oberst
Conor Oberst has been the heart and soul of Bright Eyes since he was but a wee emo teen, and despite short-lived side ventures like Park Ave. and Desaparecidos, Bright Eyes has been, for all intents and purposes, Oberst’s main musical vehicle. Now finally ducking out from under that weighted alias, Omaha’s preeminent songwriter has (technically) struck out on his own with the aid of the Mystic Valley Band, a name that sounds like it came straight from a tent revival. Conor has always been a chameleonic musician, switching from punk rock to orchestral pop to squawking electronica on various projects, but Conor Oberst is a treatise on what Conor does best: folk/rock at its most earnest, introspective, and musically accomplished.
“Cape Canaveral” starts out the record in the vein of 2005’s I’m Wide Awake, It’s Morning, a simple acoustic melody framing Oberst’s typically sharp lyrics beseeching “hey hey hey mother interstate / can you deliver me from evil?” Conor and the band traveled down to Mexico to record this album, and evidently the southern climate paid off, giving much of the record an abnormally relaxed vibe when taken in context with Oberst’s other work.
“Sausalito” is a shuffling, optimistic country-rock tune about running away from the modern world, a common theme on an album that, above all else, celebrates the highway and the allure of American back roads. “Moab” is the best example of this, a pulsing guitar-rock with a dash of country spice that wouldn’t sound out of place on Cassadaga. When Oberst triumphantly announces, “there’s nothing that the road cannot heal,” by then you’re having too much fun to disagree with him either way.
Lyrically Oberst is in top form, dropping sepia-toned images like “hear the Mustangs rev at the four way stop / you get ghosted when the light says go” on the anthemic “Get-Well-Cards” and painting a vivid pictures of the mind like “patterns in my mind now moving slow / sorrow all across the surface roads / smoothing out the edges of the stone / the lights are out, where’d everybody go?” on the beautifully dark “Lenders in the Temple.”
Lyrics mean nothing without a solid backing track to flesh out the thoughts, and Oberst and his band don’t disappoint. The bouncy guitars and tinkling piano on “Danny Callahan” contrast with the tragic subject matter, highlighting the potential for joy in the midst of grief. Bluegrass boogie rave-up “I Don’t Want To Die (In A Hospital)” is one of the most urgent songs Oberst has ever recorded, a track that fairly explodes with energy, conjuring up a ridiculous image of Oberst rocking some country bar in the backwoods of Georgia. If there’s ever been a better argument for living out your last days rather than wasting away in a bed, I haven’t heard it.
Oberst has been getting more and more consistent with his offerings over the years, but with the sheer amount of ideas he has, there are always bound to be a few that never truly work out. “NYC-Gone, Gone” takes a simple American foot-stompin,’ hand-clappin’ beat and electrifies it with a stick-in-your-head chorus that inexplicably ends shortly after the minute mark. “Valle Mistico (Ruben’s Song)” is a fairly pointless instrumental break that serves only to stunt the album’s momentum.
But these are trifling problems, and the one-two punch of “Souled Out!!!” and “Milk Thistle” that closes out the record forgives any transgressions. The former is the sound of a band that sounds like they could keep playing music for eternity with a grin on their faces and a laugh in their throats, a bar-band sing-a-long with a roaring guitar and pounding drums, while the latter is a gentle acoustic strummer in the tradition of “Lime Tree” with some of the album’s best lyrics: “I keep death at my heels / like a basset hound / if I go to heaven, I’ll be bored as hell / like a crying baby at the bottom of a well.” Simple and startlingly effective, it ends the record on one of many peaks.
If Conor needed to prove to anyone that he could survive and, more importantly, succeed outside of the confines of Bright Eyes, his work with the Mystic Valley Band should go a long way to putting any doubts to rest. He’s not exactly the Bob Dylan of the millennial generation yet, but he’s pretty far on his way.
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