The People's Key - Bright Eyes

4.0/5.0

The People's Key is a driving record, maintaining Bright Eyes' energy.

“Firewall,” the first, seven-minute track on The People's Key is set around an oral report of sorts attempting to persuade (I think...) us about our concepts time. Conor Oberst has been one for experimentation, so to hear this rant, something outside of his regular folk-rock faith, wasn't too surprising. Nonetheless, it served as a disruption that required the listener to pay more attention-- it definitely did not have same “cynic-portrayed-happy” of I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning's “At the Bottom of Everything.”

In my experience with Oberst's songwriting, I find that it generally consists of giving topical concepts a tinge of pessimism, making music for those lyrics that is ironically bright. The songs following “Firewall” seem bright but don't give me the same understanding, “oh that's witty, Conor” smile. Rather, I hear music simply about goings-on that blends perfectly with songs about love and the strange. For instance, post-opener “Shell Games” is an energetic track that shows a difference in respect to the Bright Eyes standard. Oberst sings about his “heavy love,” with a chorus that is carried by an arena-rock guitar riff (the brief, power-chord ridden kind that's played right before the drums kick in,) and then is slammed by that electro-pop-rock-kind-of-thing that's achieved by many of the indie rock field today. (see: Belle & Sebastian's “Come On Sister” from Write About Love.) Regardless, Oberst's divergence with his words does not shame his previous work-- his music merely is understanding of its vocals.

Oberst takes a break for the dissonant “Approximate Sunlight.” Even though it is disconcerting, it's a calming track; the song that puts the exuberance of previous songs to a brief halt. This is negated with the very next song on the album, and possibly the album's most listenable, “Haile Selassie,” is set up with introductory delay, another synth-riff, as well as a chorus that delivers and resonates, much in the same way as “Shell Games.”

The second half of the album appears to be more traditional. Upon listening to “A Machine Spiritual (In the People's Key)” and “Beginner's Mind” one will hear how Oberst reestablishes his grasp on the comfortable element of classic Bright Eyes songwriting. The type of songwriting that allowed listeners to become familiar with their most unconscious, in-depth ideas that were left unprovoked; Oberst says and sings much of what these listeners always had knowledge of or believed in. The type of lyrics that provided the basis for the relationship between listeners and Bright Eyes years ago.

Conor Oberst with Bright Eyes created a set of songs that are more intricately woven with the influences of general pop and rock, as opposed to the homogeneous, "Bob Dylanist" standing he had on some of the band's previous albums. Regardless, Bright Eyes has shown a sincere lack of lyrical predictability, as always, in their most recent release.

Kaputt - Destroyer

5.0/5.0

New Pornographers' Dan Bejar releases another record with the nuances of 70s radio soft rock.

Supreme rambler Dan Bejar publishes his musings with smooth jazz sax and soft flow, that enacts those fond living room memories of my mother's favorite fusion records. And I hated them.

But Kaputt persuades listeners to absorb those rhythms that make your chin bob left-and-right, groove, and truly enjoy those qualities that when you thought were so painfully tacky. (It doesn't take much convincing.) Bejar created a masterpiece founded on these qualities that makes even the most attention-deficient pick up every single one of his words-- even in the nine minute “Suicide Demo For Kara Walker”, or the everlasting final track “Bay of Pigs (Detail).”

Lyrically speaking, Kaputt is dumbfounding-- how does Bejar keep it together with rushed stanzas of prose? He speaks as I would expect one to speak at some sort of poetry reading, specifically one that is being held in some sort of questionable establishment where listeners are hardly in a correct state of mind and somehow think the reciter is as out-of-sorts as they are-- when clearly the speaker, Bejar in this case, is very conscious of every word he utters. Kaputt has a stream-of-consciousness quality to it, but the lyrics are resounding nonetheless (see: “Poor in Love.”)

The lyrical archetype of Kaputt is “Who knew?” which is present on “Kaputt” and “Song for America.” Is this a mere call-out for sympathy? Or just a chance for Bejar to moan and blend his voice with the retro-goings on? Or perhaps it is just a means to make listeners more curious or more attentive to Bejar's message?

“Kaputt” describes the essence of its album, synthesizing a dream-like quality comparable to Daft Punk's “Something Like Us.” (The music video is all too fitting for this song, and really, the entire album.) The song ends with Bejar, as if on the verge of spilling his heart out, saying his catch phrase “who knew?” with a saxophone to boot. This song fades out in such a manner that I would expect Dan Bejar dancing on the beach on a deserted beach, like Herb Alpert in the music video for “Rise.”

Bejar dabbles with musical genres that, for lack of a better term, would generally be considered sub-par. Regardless, Kaputt keeps pounding out pop-ambient-smooth-jazz-fusion melodic allusions that it creates a mound of genius rooted in the generic music library of middle-aged women. And I dig Destroyer for doing it. 

Watch the video for "Kaputt" here: