And this guy isn't even popular anymore. But his legacy of shittiness remains, and I feel the need to describe my hate... for CONOR OBERST.
With a quivering voice that suggests "I was hatched from an egg on a cold winter night in 1975, in South Dakota. After my entire family died in a barn fire, I wandered from town to town, playing my mini harpsichord for whomever would listen. Now that I'm famous, I don't forget my roots; I'm way more pure than you and I demand respect," and an aesthetic that says, "I was admitted to a mental hospital for trying to actually become a dandelion," I have to say Conor Oberst is a dangerous piece-a-shit.
If you're not in love with yourself, you don't name your band "Bright Eyes." "Bright Eyes" is just as arbitrary a band name as "Clear Skin" or "Shiny Hair." It's subtle self-adulation.
Conor Oberst has that kind of face that says, "I will never belly laugh. I will never go out of my way to do a favor for a friend. I exist for the sole purpose of slowly dissipating my ultra-concentrated insecurity with periodic releases of seemingly earnest indie rock. We can't be friends, but I invite you to crawl inside my asshole."
ps: the older he gets the more mediocre the music!!!
ReplyDeleteSee also Wilder, Matthew "Boys in the Corner: Jonathan Safran Foer, Wes Anderson, Conor Oberst, and the new male infantilism" http://www.citypages.com/2005-06-22/arts/boys-in-the-corner
ReplyDelete"...Of all the celebrated SmurfBoys of the moment, 24-year-old Oberst is for sure the most little and most blue. I can't recall a single live performance that filled me with as much rage as Oberst's unsmiling warm-up for Belle & Sebastian at the Greek Theatre in Los Angeles, in which an anti-Iraq war variation on his current song "Road to Joy" climaxed with Oberst closing his bright eyes and rendering the mock-ecstatic windup--"Let's fuck it up, boys, let's make some noise"--as a literally shivering paean to his own too-raw nerve endings. "Let's fffffuckitup, boys!" Oberst shuddered, his plosive F a talisman of his too-sensitive-to-live fragility. (Even serenading Leno with "When the President Talks to God" can't redeem that long evening.) On his early 2005 album I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning, Oberst the composer devises variations on Robbie Robertson's shambling antebellum melodies that have a crawling-kudzu creepiness, like Matthew Brady photos of carpetbaggers staring shell-shocked into space. But damned if every song isn't shellacked by Oberst's penchant for teen-drama-queen melodrama. No lyric clink of image-shards or exhausted wheeze of Jon Brionesque hurdy-gurdy is permitted to stand its own ground. No, all must be subjugated to the sniffly one's deluge of sensations, impressions, and feelings. (Maybe that's why the title suggests the first, early a.m. words of a demonically overprecocious child.)..."
an amazing description.
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