Old loves die hard. ...And then they are bludgeoned to the ground.
It seems there are times in your life when you discover the right artist or book or song at exactly the right time. My freshman year of college was very much characterized by discovering Bright Eyes. Albums--or songs even--that were amalgamations of synthesizer, pedal steel, and acoustic guitar; the idiosyncratic political-but-self-referencing narrative of Conor Oberst's lyrics; the warbling and sometimes manic vocals: all of it felt like a sympathetic expression of my feelings, the earnest eclecticism of my thoughts and learning, my own insecurity about life at 18, 19, and 20. Even now, it's hard to articulate.
Bright Eyes set a kind of standard for the music I listened to. Five years ago, when I first saw Bright Eyes live in Pittsburgh I would have said without a doubt it was the best show I'd ever been to.
Of course, over time people change and feelings fade. When Cassadaga came out I intuitively knew it wouldn't be for me. And I didn't even bother listening to it until months after its release, when I borrowed my sister's copy. As I wrote at the time, it felt a bit derivative, stripped of a lot of the freshness of earlier albums. Bright Eyes was no longer my can-do-no-wrong band, and although I still felt connected to the earlier albums, the frequency with which I listened to Bright Eyes had diminished as I disovered other artists.
So when Conor Oberst and The Mystic Valley Band were scheduled to play at Terminal 5 in November, I'd only given it a passing thought. After awhile, though, the idea of going grew on me. I hadn't listened to any of the new stuff, but something about the idea was slightly intriguing. Like looking through a high school yearbook and wanting to know what the person you had a crush on looks like and is doing now. And so I found myself ordering a ticket, and then, last night, waiting in line outside the venue. And, in fact, going to the show.
Sentimentalism under wraps: I nerded out wearing my circa 2003 tee shirt underneath a trusty gray hoodie.
Maybe it was the slick, quasi-glamour of Terminal 5 (oh how I remember the days when Conor Oberst wouldn't play Clear Channel venues and you couldn't buy Bright Eyes tickets through Ticketmaster), maybe it was the token rapping hipster opening act, maybe it was Ben Kweller playing half the same set I saw him play five years ago, maybe it was the name Mystic Valley Band, maybe it was Conor Oberst's rockstar posturing. Maybe it was the music. There was nothing about Conor Oberst's entire set that I connected with or vaguely liked.
And maybe I've grown up.
But with all my sentimental heart I'd like to obliterate the memory of Sunday night and hold on to those years spent listening to Letting Off the Happiness and writing in my diary or walking desultory through parks with Fevers and Mirrors. I want to pretend nothing has changed.
Bright Eyes set a kind of standard for the music I listened to. Five years ago, when I first saw Bright Eyes live in Pittsburgh I would have said without a doubt it was the best show I'd ever been to.
Of course, over time people change and feelings fade. When Cassadaga came out I intuitively knew it wouldn't be for me. And I didn't even bother listening to it until months after its release, when I borrowed my sister's copy. As I wrote at the time, it felt a bit derivative, stripped of a lot of the freshness of earlier albums. Bright Eyes was no longer my can-do-no-wrong band, and although I still felt connected to the earlier albums, the frequency with which I listened to Bright Eyes had diminished as I disovered other artists.
So when Conor Oberst and The Mystic Valley Band were scheduled to play at Terminal 5 in November, I'd only given it a passing thought. After awhile, though, the idea of going grew on me. I hadn't listened to any of the new stuff, but something about the idea was slightly intriguing. Like looking through a high school yearbook and wanting to know what the person you had a crush on looks like and is doing now. And so I found myself ordering a ticket, and then, last night, waiting in line outside the venue. And, in fact, going to the show.
Sentimentalism under wraps: I nerded out wearing my circa 2003 tee shirt underneath a trusty gray hoodie.
Maybe it was the slick, quasi-glamour of Terminal 5 (oh how I remember the days when Conor Oberst wouldn't play Clear Channel venues and you couldn't buy Bright Eyes tickets through Ticketmaster), maybe it was the token rapping hipster opening act, maybe it was Ben Kweller playing half the same set I saw him play five years ago, maybe it was the name Mystic Valley Band, maybe it was Conor Oberst's rockstar posturing. Maybe it was the music. There was nothing about Conor Oberst's entire set that I connected with or vaguely liked.
And maybe I've grown up.
But with all my sentimental heart I'd like to obliterate the memory of Sunday night and hold on to those years spent listening to Letting Off the Happiness and writing in my diary or walking desultory through parks with Fevers and Mirrors. I want to pretend nothing has changed.