Conor Oberst

Was it only a few short years ago that everyone was calling Conor Oberst the new Bob Dylan? Breathless magazine profiles and prolific recorded output had the moody, homecrafted songs of the Nebraska native in heavy rotation on the zeitgeist’s iPod. Turned out he had plenty of competition in folky pop’s baby-genius sweepstakes: Devendra Banhart, Sufjan Stevens, Joanna Newsom and others made way more unique and imaginative albums that aspired to sometimes feverish and obsessive degrees of performance art.

Oberst’s new self-titled disc is his first major release under his own name, after ten albums recorded as Bright Eyes. That doesn’t count various cassette-only projects, offshoots and collaborations. And he’s still only 28—so props to that work ethic. That being said, we really can’t stomach the guy.

If those Dylan comparisons can still be employed, the new album feels like half–Nashville Skyline, half–Blood on the Tracks, as jaunty, countryesque numbers bump against mannered, confessional narratives—but awful. It’s the soy-dog version of something much meatier. The dusty C&W ditty “Sausalito” summons bucolic vistas of blue skies, sunshine and “heaven at our feet” as the singer lights out for the trails with a lover beside him. It’s a pleasant toss-off. Not quite as convincing is the wanna-be honky tonk of “I Don’t Want to Die (In the Hospital),” which blithers on in limp-dicked, juke-joint monotony.

Fans of the sensitive, acoustic side of Oberst’s art will find plenty of still, quiet moments. “Newspaper, newspaper, can’t take no more,” he sings on “Milk Thistle,” gently picking a coffeehouse melody. “You’re here every morning at my door.” Do go on about your slippers and robe.