Conor Oberst and the Mystic Valley Band - Outer South
(listen to it on NPR’s “Exclusive First Listen”)
I keep catching myself wanting to dislike the Dylan/Beatles/Allman Brothers mishmash of this album, but I can’t, it’s such a great sprawling piece of positivity.
I love the Austin City Limits songwriters-in-the-round episode with Oberst and M. Wood (is that is name?) and a couple others - the guy from My Morning Jacket, I think. I only watch it in my mind, though - for some reason I recorded over my VHS of it. I think I succumbed to the same impulse to dislike - where does that come from?
Generally speaking, this kind of classic rock reconstruction strikes me as like the Annie’s brand of organic macaroni and cheese you can buy these days in the grocery store. Delicious, but cognitively dissonant. Don’t they risk enshrining rock and roll in the same kind of cultural straightjacket jazz occupies in mainstream culture?
In some respect, of course, the idea that Wynton Marsalis has ruined jazz is a myth. Norah Jones, for example, in her role as the Shania Twain of jazz, clearly shows that people are still unbound by proscriptive jazz doctrines, and there are plenty of jazz innovators in between segments on All Things Considered - although even jazz too freaky for ATC is feeling rather cemented in place. Really, though, the progress of pieces of culture from fringe to mainstream to relic is not undeniably a bad thing, much less any one person’s fault.
But if a given collection of ideas is like a person, every time a band does something because that’s the way the Rolling Stones would’ve done it is one more step towards rock and roll’s retirement.
This album and Bill Callahan’s Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle are a couple of great-sounding new albums coming out of Texas. This one was recorded at some kind of awesome pleasure palace near El Paso - Sonic Ranch Studios. Check out their “adobe studio”. That’s just one of five studios and three houses on the site. It’s kind of ridiculous. I guess the results speak for themselves. It ain’t Blind Willie Johnson!
