This review, from Buddyhead, is very strange. They end up giving it a 4 out of 5. ----- I'll be honest and admit I knew little or nothing of this band before I read the press sheet that's glued to the back of this cd. After giving it a few listens and time to grow on me I came to the conclusion that Conor Oberst is a very talented and diverse songwriter with a unique and peculiar style. His song writing style spans from a quiet lull of lush acoustically blended structures to at times something that one might even call rock. If a reference point is needed I'd probably go with something between Elliot Smith, the Beatles, and dare I say the Flaming Lips? The production is nice as well. Clean, but still keeping that lo-fi and personal element that only seems to compliment and add to the songwriting, something very rare in music these days. I don't know how to record albums, so I can't talk that technical bullshit, sorry, I just know what I like to hear. Conor's infatuation with death and his dark outlook only lured me into the music even more. His fascination with death reminds me of this British gay guy my friend Chris and I met last week. We walked up the street to this bar after work to just have a few drinks and shoot the shit. About an hour into our night we met a group of rather odd characters. One being the British gay guy, who introduced himself with the statement "Americans don't understand Oasis for shit, they're fucking stupid wankers". Not long after we had met our motley crue of new acquaintances the bartender announced "last call" and we were invited to attend an "after hours party" they were headed for. Having nothing else quite this promising lined up and always being up for an adventure (which was inevitable with this clan) we piled seven deep into their mid 90's compact car. Chris and I knew we were in for a longer drive than originally planned on when the driver asked which way the 405 freeway was (that's the freeway that heads to orange county and eventually San Diego). Twenty minutes into our journey the girl sitting on the angry British gay guys lap asked if it was raining. She wasn't the least bit stoked when she found out that what she thought was rain was nothing more than warm weird British gay guy puke all over her back and neck. Now I've never puked on anyone, but if I did I'm assuming I'd be really embarrassed and apologize a whole bunch. Not to mention feel really shitty about it. Not this guy, he made sure to tell her she should have moved and to shut up and wash her jacket, in his thick British accent that due to the amount of alcohol he had consumed sounded more like backwards German. The verbal onslaught continued and soon spread to the other passengers of the vehicle. Once we reached our destination (which turned out to be somewhere in Santa Monica, I think) the real drama unfolded. Turns out the British guy had been staying in these people's apartment for the last month and was a totally uninvited guest. The girl that got puked on showered right away and didn't say much the rest of the night and the angry puke-machine locked himself in one of the rooms to pass out, while quirky weird looking blonde girl and the owner of the room that the vomit king was in, snorted what they said was "probably coke and crank" off a neon glass mirror. They had bought it from "the weird Italian guy down the street" that told them that he "wasn't sure what it was made of" earlier that night. They were stoked they got it for cheap. I declined the death powder. After ranting and ranting about the British guy and his ways, the guy snorting whatever launched into why Hollywood sucks and how he's gonna move and attend film school in northern California. Chris made sure to tell him film school was bullshit and in short for pussies. I made sure to tell him that Pablo Honey was hands down the worst Radiohead album and that it was a disgrace for him to only own that one. I mean who the fuck owns that one but not Ok Computer, let alone The Bends? Fucking weirdos that's who. And here I thought this guy was going to be a british music guru, I mean with an opening line like that about Oasis, who's to blame me. Anyways, the after party wasn't a party at all, but rather Chris interrogating these weirdos with quite absurd and interesting questions and then proceeding to look through their purses and cupboards (with their permission of course). I ended up falling asleep on their carpet half way through the second Air record. --Travis Keller ________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com
