If there is one thing that is likely clear, it’s that I’m not a natural music critic. I’m somebody who's expertise going on 15 years has been film. If you asked me to review a film, I could break apart the different components and tell you what I liked and disliked about everything. Even the music in relation to the image can spark my imagination. Meanwhile, I can’t exactly say that I’m capable of this with album reviews, if just because a lot of it is more based on instinct, what clicks with you. As someone drawn to narrative, it’s often hopeless to approach things from a lyrical component because, as was the case last week, Kiesza is first and foremost about the energy she exerts. I’m not confident enough as a writer to break it down beyond that.
Which is what makes Bright Eyes an interesting case. For the first time since Owen Pallet’s album, I feel like I’m able to look at the album and see something greater. I’m not built to critique pop music, though I’m hoping to figure out how. However, I can look at the orchestral approach that the band makes and find awe and appreciation for every song. Individually, they all have something that resonates, creating a deeper emotional catharsis that fills you with awe. You are impressed that music still has the power to strike you to your core, making you cry and feel the melancholic warmth that singer Conor Oberst put into every song.
I don’t expect pop music to be this rich. Frankly, it would probably not be ideal given current trends. Still, for me “Down in the Weeds Where the World Once Was” manages to take me on a sonic journey that I have been lacking from many of these albums. Even the ones that I love, I’m not able to feel like I could go long, diving into the lyrics one minute and the next talking about how the shift from piano to this rich, vibrant orchestra symbolizes emotional shifts. There are even echoes that I think reflect the loneliness and insular themes that are exciting to me. That’s because, as a writer, I love substance that makes you grapple with it.
That isn’t to say that I came into this as a Bright Eyes fan. I’m not accepting a big bag of money with a “ $ “ on it for this flagrant endorsement. Before this album, I may have heard one Bright Eyes song on KROQ 106.7 back when I was in high school. I didn’t think much of it, figuring it was another throwaway emo band that would disappear with time. It’s not that the song was bad, but that’s just how a teenager thinks when they’re raised on trashy punk records.
Some things to consider when approaching this is that Bright Eyes become the latest band to “coincidentally” reunite after a long hiatus during a COVID-19 pandemic. Their last album, “The People’s Key,” came out in 2011 and at the time was considered their final album. Oberst would later suggest that it wasn’t, especially since he managed to stay in contact with his bandmates over the years. Like Phantom Planet before, there wasn’t really any bad blood there. They were mostly waiting for the right ideas to kick into gear.
For starters, the atmosphere of this album is breathtaking, worthy of headphones, and an open heart. The opener, “Pageturner’s Rag,” drops the listener into a dive bar. A woman, in Spanish, welcomes the pianist to the stage to play a ragtime tune. The microphone has that echo you only get in a crowded room, a wave of people talking and ignoring her. As the ragtime starts, it’s a familiar and jaunty melody. It’s unclear why this exhaustive track is here, but it makes the whole thing feel like Bright Eyes is about to perform in a seedy club, ignored by the world around them. Conversations are cut in and out, causing the ragtime to fall to the background. These conversations are in a lot of ways inconsequential, but the piano’s melody begins to shift, making you feel unease like everything isn’t as it should be.
What is going on? Why does Bright Eyes feel like this is a good way to begin an album? It feels like it lasts a lot longer than it should, and yet it all builds an atmosphere, capable of making even the use of echo to convey different emotions depending on how it’s read. Is everyone in the bar secretly lonely and looking for connection in this ragtime performance? Is it saying that we need to go beyond the crowds and find something pure, changing before our very eyes? It’s a subtle moment where it goes from insufferable to profound and sets up an aura for what’s about to follow.
This is an approach that’s very intentional. To jump forward briefly, the album ends with “Comet Song.” It’s methodical in a different way, using a comet as a symbol for life’s circularity. All it does is an orbit around the universe, following a preordained course. It’s like the album, which has the capabilities to be listened to on a loop, finding these moments constantly replaying throughout our lives. But, as astrologist will tell you, there is a chance for a comet to break off course and fall to Earth. Things have the potential to change, though it requires significant effort to become a meteor and meteorite.
As the album ends, it’s the sound of an orchestra clashing with several incomprehensible sounds, overwhelming the listener. It’s unclear where this is going, and yet it’s clear for those paying close attention. We’ll be back in that dive bar, ready to listen to ragtime again, finding solace in that instrument. Will we listen this time, or will we get lost in a smaller conversation?
That isn’t to say that everything in-between is about life in this bar, nor is it a journey through outer space. Oberst is more obsessed with the duality of man, of conflicting ideas clashing together in this surreal harmony. One minute can be the happiest in his life while another he’ll be grappling with suicide. As he sings about turning 40 and feeling a change in his life, he is looking back on the shift in morality, of his mortality and legacy. As much as this can be called a concept album, it’s confessional about how he sees the world and himself inside of it.
Thankfully, Bright Eyes are gifted musicians who pulled from different corners of the music spectrum from this. To call it a rock record is farcical, even if it’s rooted in a style they’ve been developing for decades, evolving from a humble trio banging away on instruments. Even with the diversity, it all comes from a synchronized vision that is impeccable, managing to make the granular and grandiose fill the listener with varying degrees of awe.
This can be easily observed over the first half of the album. “Dance and Sing” starts the album on a smaller note, more reminiscent of folk-rock where Oberst sings with an ache in his voice. It builds, capturing a heart slowly starting to beat again. An early theme is the mentioned duality, such as on “Mariana Trench” where he uses the geographical landmark as a symbol of the highs and lows of life, realizing that one minute he can be smiling in a parade while another stuck in the fire. It’s a bit humorous, but his smug approach adds this deeper weight and insight into the melancholic ideas, making one recognize the bipolar struggles in everyone.
Then to shift into “One and Done” is where things become exciting sonically. To quote band member Nate Walcott, the song is: “Stravinsky meets Bernard Herrmann Alfred Hitchcock score meets Jon Theodore’s metal.” It all comes together in transcendent manners that are far more impressive than this suggests. With the singular Flea (Red Hot Chili Peppers) playing bass, it creates one of the most incredible experiences on the album, eventually breaking into a manic, ethereal orchestra that overwhelms the listener with emotion, finding the lyrics melt into something more abstract and beautiful. It’s what great music can do, and the moment comes up occasionally from here on out. However, the first time is still the most breathtaking.
It becomes amusing when paired with the next song “Pan and Broom,” which embraces minimalism. It’s so stripped down that you can hear the echo’s echo, where every note has a sparse quality to reflect how empty it is. This forces you to become more entranced by the lyrics, working above a rinky-dink drum machine in such a way that it works to convey the emotions stronger. It also has one of the starkest opening lines of any song on the album:
Out of the blue
Saw you fall down the stairs
It was me pushing you
Innocence
Tell me the truth
Is that blood on your hands
Or just chocolate and fruit?
Given that the next song, “Stairwell Song” details a time sitting on a porch, it’s likely that there’s a simplicity to everything for a reason. It’s self-reflecting on mistakes of the past while looking for the future, which will inform the second half of the album. Every now and then the struggle for duality breaks through into a greater thought (orchestral pieces), but they’re all intentional. As the vocals echo, they find a more insular look at the self. Everything is designed in such a way that it begins to feel metaphysical, where even the lyrics are just a tapestry for this vision. Of course, they’re important, especially since they’re some of the most meticulous and cryptic at times.
The back half is where the album becomes an even greater masterpiece, managing to delve into something more personal and heartfelt inside of Bright Eyes. This is where everything becomes clearest, where duality is whittle down to central themes. “Tilt-A-Whirl” begins with a story about his family, an abrupt song compared to everything around it.
The next two songs are possibly the most intriguing songs on the album. “Hot Car in the Sun” may be a song about a dog in a hot car, but its allusions are clearly related to suicide. It captures a vulnerability and unwillingness to go on that most of us have probably faced at some point, and the imagery is on point. Comparatively, “Forced Convalescence” is about being injured and forced to recover in bed. Oberst swears that it isn’t about COVID-19 and about his own childhood, though it’s easy to play in either context.
The swirling soundscape returns as the singer becomes cured, able to tell a taxi driver that he wants to go anywhere. It’s clear how overwhelmed he is with the world, recalling the final minutes of The Beatles’ “A Day in the Life” in such a way that speaks to joy, a desire to explore the world and understand it again. There’s jubilation in this indecipherable bit and one that carries throughout the final stretch of songs, waiting to reach “Comet Song” and self-realization that they have been participating in this circle of life for quite some time, experiencing the highs and lows of life.
This is music as art. What it lacks in memorable hooks it more than makes up for with these mature melodies, constantly challenging the listener with unexpected sound shifts that play on something inside our synapses. When the notes shift, the listener feels them and understands deeper awe. The lyrics by themselves are poetic, managing to convey a lyricist in full control of his talent. While it’s not entirely clear what’s going on, sometimes literally, it all works as a musical journey that most of us have been looking for. It’s an escape that allows us to come to terms with some parts of us, realizing that we’re older and dealing with mortality. This isn’t a pandemic record, though the timing feels more than coincidental.
It’s one that keeps coming back to that bar, asking us what’s the important thing to focus on at this moment. Is it the conversations of mundane topics, or is it the melody of life itself, constantly shifting? It doesn’t know any language, yet we all understand. That is until things change into something different. Will we be ready for that unexpected moment, or will we even notice? So much can be determined by the first and last track here that it’s easy to forget the weight and soul of the other 12 tracks. It’s all a breathtaking masterpiece and one that reminds us to appreciate what this world gives us, to make us feel more alive.
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