Bright Eyes- The People's Key (****½)

Conor Oberst never wanted to be his generation’s Bob Dylan.

The nature of that comparison has always been awkward for him, especially considering his music borrowed more from In The Aeroplane Over The Sea than Blonde On Blonde. What’s more important is how critics and fans pushed Oberst into accepting that role, accepting that "truth," and what it meant for his music in the process.

The short of it is that the last Bright Eyes record (2007’s Cassadaga) was constricted in country tones that didn’t seem to effectively capture Oberst’s earnestness. Though it was impressive to watch him try on a ten-gallon hat, the arrangements felt cluttered and a bit too sterile. Oberst was trying to live up to this idea of the verbose Americana songwriter that the media wanted him to be, and to achieve that, he crammed as many rustic touches as he could into his music. Sadly, what Cassadaga ultimately revealed was that Oberst lost the confidence to write with unflinching honesty, which was always his most endearing quality.

So after two solo records, and a great deal of soul searching, it’s a real treat to hear Conor Oberst approach this new batch of Bright Eyes songs with the same sensitivity and neurosis that made his first albums so compelling. The People’s Key welcomes back Oberst’s spazzed-out punky roots, as well as his penchant for expansive synthesizers and tongue-twisting wordplay. Whether it’s the Casio inspired new-wave of “Shell Games” or the choppily strummed, string laden drift of “A Spiritual Machine (In The People’s Key)” Oberst sounds refreshed, which makes the record feel all the more vital.

While there’s an obvious kinship between The People’s Key and 2005’s electronic heavy Digital Ash In A Digital Urn, it’s not in structure or execution.

Actually, The People’s Key isn’t so much an electronic album as it’s an album that features synthesized elements. Instead of populating these songs with purely organic or processed aesthetics, Oberst and producer/bandmate Mike Mogis have rediscovered how rewarding space can be. Though these tracks are richly detailed, they don’t feel claustrophobic. In fact, The People’s Key slowly blooms for listeners, a record that remains grounded by driving melodies, accented by its gauzy mix. Songs like “Firewall” come to mind, especially with its ebbing beats, climbing open chords, and collage style sound bites. Elsewhere, “Approximate Sunlight” basks in minimalist clatter, isolated guitar, and Oberst’s reverb laced voice.

Yet the most refreshing part about The People’s Key isn’t that Oberst and Mogis regressed to a previous sound, it’s that they’ve embraced their past textural experiments with a newfound wisdom. They’ve moved forward both in construction and in worldview. If Cassadaga and Oberst’s solo records with the Mystic Valley Band were exercises in traditionalism, this album revels in the abstract, both sonically and conceptually.

Music publications have made a big deal about Oberst’s fascination with Rastafarian mysticism on The People’s Key, but the truth is that it’s less radical or exotic than it’s made out to be. Oberst isn’t concerned with passing the dutchie or exploring reggae, he’s finished posturing. The bulk of The People’s Key seems to be concerned with where language breaks down, and how human conflict is born out of absolutist beliefs. He makes this abundantly clear on songs like “Triple Spiral,” where he ponders the cosmic gray with lines like “That's the problem, an empty sky/I fill it up with everything that's missing from my life/Where'd you come from, you faded sign?/Spinning through the centuries/Expanding all the time…”

Though it’s difficult to write about spirituality without being pigeonholed as some sort of advocate, Oberst walks the tightrope beautifully. He finds a way to illustrate truth through absurdity, whether it’s with random passages about UFOs and the vibrations of syllables, or the “I and I” construct that serves as the meat and potatoes of “One For You, One For Me.” On the stark, plunking piano of “Ladder Song” Oberst eschews sermonizing for simple revelations, for take-it-if-you-want pearls of perspective, “Well I know when its finally done/This whole life is a hallucination/You're not alone in anything/You're not alone in trying to be…” In the end, will see that Oberst isn’t interested in converting anyone: Not his critics, not his fans, and not the ones who "know" what the Bright Eyes name should stand for.

Instead, he explores human frailty on The People’s Key, its shortcomings, and how to glean comfort from uncertainty. Ultimately, it makes the album’s title that much more appropriate; Oberst isn’t interested in unlocking something within or outside of ourselves. He’s more concerned with finding a spiritual harmony within the universe’s perceived dissonance, tranquility in life’s contradiction. The People’s Key is the sound of Conor Oberst simply being Conor Oberst, and everything that goes along with it.

That actually resonates a lot louder, and a lot more meaningfully, than the idea of being the next Bob Dylan.

Key Cuts: Shell Games, Approximate Sunlight, Ladder Song

Sounds Like: Modern Guilt (Beck), Height (John Nolan), Who Will Cut Our Hair When We're Gone? (The Unicorns)

Click on the artwork to sample The People's Key for yourself!