Photographs by Daniela Tantalo.
The anticipated intimate solo performance from Conor Oberst, known mainly from previous iteration Bright Eyes, brought about a full house at Massey Hall. There alone, I was acutely aware that the audience was made up primarily of couples, not surprising from such an emotional artist: bringing a shoulder to cry on was just smart planning. Speaking of emotional artistry, opener Waxahatchee was a delightful hit of nostalgia through music. With her tights and red babydoll dress she looked like someone I knew from a distance in high school by face but not name, and her set provided a similar wistful experience. Like the set promised from Conor she delivers solo intimacy, the stage threatening to swallow her and her guitar on occasion if not for the spotlight tethering her down. Her lyrics are very visual, “I lay next to you for three years shedding my skin”, and they evoke colourful memories. It’s hard to pin down an immediate comparison to her sound, comfortable but interesting, a mix CD played on vinyl. “You tell a classic story”, she sings, and she does the same, if not in a new or jarring way no doubt in a beautiful one. It’s not hard to see why she was chosen for this show, stylistically similar enough to Oberst that I’m left wanting with fingers crossed for a duet.
With little fanfare after a short pause Oberst walks onto stage, taking a seat at a piano while his bass guitarist stands behind and a bearded man sits on a stool beside, chin in hand, staring at a fishbowl. It’s a singular image. After quickly tuning his harmonica which the bearded man removes and hands to him from the aforementioned fishbowl (“”I saw your man Neil Young do this shit with the fish bowl and the harmonicas in concert,” he later explains. “I though, this shit’s tight, I’m gonna do it”), he opens with “Tachycardia”, speaking of the “bad dream, I have it seven times a week.” Two stuffed bears sit atop the piano, watching him blow his gentle interludes. The next tune “Gossamer Thin” makes you wonder how much is drawn from his experience in Bright Eyes with lyrics like, “you are who you are and you are someone else.” Coming from a master storyteller, it’s nearly impossible to discern what’s experience and what’s literature but it’s just as meaningful in the end. His playing and voice are unsurprisingly filled with emotional peaks and valleys, a trademark of his raw sound. Abandoning the piano but keeping the harmonica, Oberst moves to centre stage and picks up an acoustic guitar for “Barbary Coast”. Though I make the comparison on tiptoes I can’t help but think of Neil Young as I watch him live, and not just for the fishbowl. Having had the pleasure of seeing both, the gut feeling that works its way up to your chest is the same, folk and harmonica and messages you can feel. “’Cause the modern world is a sight to see, it’s a stimulant, it’s pornography.” I think that’s a sentiment Neil Young could get behind.
“This next one,” he introduces, “is like a deranged lullaby. I don’t recommend you play it for children.” The song is “Counting Sheep”, yet another of many where the artist toys with the idea of suicide. They certainly pull at a chord for those who’ve experienced mental illness, particularly this song, “I don’t want to seem needy to anyone including you” a sentiment that flies through the mind of everyone facing an internal struggle alone. “Just tryna be easy on everyone, but especially you.” He falls into another familiar territory with the songs “You All Loved Him Once” and “A Little Uncanny” on celebrity and infamy. The former he describes to be about “the cult of personality,” citing Julius Cesar, Jesus Christ and John Lennon as influences on the tune. The song could be about countless others, touching on something old in followers turning against their leader and something new in the “trendy people” who are worshipped in one moment and abandoned for the next big thing the next. Not to mention the political significance: “You all loved him once, when the future was opaque. His reassuring visions were the pillars of your faith.” Remind you of anyone? The other of the two, “A Little Uncanny”, was my favourite of the night. It is a classic folk song that feels as though it’s been sung for years and years and I’m sure will be sung for many more. He touches on Jane Fonda and Ronald Regan, Robin Williams and Sylvia Plath. The audience sings and cheers along with each name and by the end the entire theatre sings along. “It’s a little uncanny,” he finishes, “what they managed to do. Make me admit to things I knew were never true.” Later, on politics, he would remark that “I do believe progressivism is gonna win out… some of these dipshits just have to die first.”
After a ten minute break, Oberst returns to sing some old favourites, “Lenders In The Temple”, “Cape Canaveral”, “White Shoes”. Each song lands as well as it did years ago, making the well-worn CDs of the early 2010s come to life for the audience. Then comes the inevitable tribute to Leonard Cohen, inevitable but no less sincere or appreciated. “I didn’t think I had any tears left [after the election],” he said, “then leonard Cohen died.” Oberst and bass guitarist then sang “Passing Through” with ample audience participation, a genuine tip of the hat to a legend. I was then delighted to get my wish when Kate Crutchfield of Waxahatchee returned to the stage to preform “Lua” with him. It’s a dreamy love song well suited to her voice, and they pair as perfectly as I would’ve hoped. After she had left the stae and as if to assert that my wildest dreams could indeed come true, Oberst ended with “At The Bottom Of Everything”, a personal favourite. It’s a strange song in that the music is so hopeful with an edge of darkness in the lyrics: “While my mother waters plants my father loads his gun. He says, death will give us back to God, just like the setting sun is returned to this lonesome ocean.” This is consistent throughout his music: the conflict of hope and despair, happiness and sorrow. He manages somehow to balance them all, and watching that come together live was a sight to behold, and one I hope to keep with me for years to come.
