K, let me explain something to you people: before you start firing off hate mail at me for shitting on your favorite artist, understand that I have plenty of reason to, how shall I put it, dislike Conor Oberst. For starters, the lil’ bastard’s precocious ability to coherently string together a bunch of related chords and lyrics in early high school made him a music press darling before he could drive. As a singer-songwriter struggling to compose songs that make sense musically, let alone actually rock, that’s pretty godawful discouraging for me. I’m 21 years old, and I spend weeks on end crafting sonic oddities that I usually never listen to again. This guy shits out saccharine hits that make the indie chicks swoon and has been doing so for seven years-and he’s my age. Oh, you marketable bastard you. Don’t bother trying to debate this vitriol with me; I’m well aware of how irrational it is.


Given the foregoing, it pretty much goes without saying that I’m not a huge Bright Eyes fan. In addition to being dubious of Oberst’s talents and envious of his fame, I also don’t listen to that much of whatever genre his main band is considered. But as this review is of the debut full-length by his new, louder project, Desaparecidos, I’ll try and focus on its own merits independently of BE’s. And-as if you didn’t see this coming-there really aren’t that many to speak of.


Without getting myself into unnecessary hot water with the “e” word, I’ll simply compare the music of Read Music/Speak Spanish to your average Deep Elm band, as well as to Cursive, the Get Up Kids, etc. You know what I’m circuitously getting at. . . but I do so hate that word. One difference between Desaparecidos and your typical whine-rock is the ridiculously fuzzed-out bass tone that forces itself to the front of the mix far too often. To demonstrate why this is problematic, let me ask you this: how many memorable emo basslines can you readily identify without touching your playlist? If, like me, your answer’s less than 3, well then, there you go: 99% of the time, the bass in this context should simply follow along with the chimy octaves and power chords.


But okay, fine; let’s assume for the moment that none of the above sounds unforgivable to you, and you still aren’t completely sold on this record’s absolute dreckiness. The crux of my argument will clear the fence of those still straddling it, and it’s this: by exaggerating all the histronics of traditional emo vocalizing, Oberst has fashioned his voice into a grotesque parody thereof. Let me put it this way: if Ween ever did emo (have they?), this is what it’d sound like. Oberst’s voice trembles so much during the quiet parts it’s embarrassing, and it cracks in tuneless anguish over the distorted choruses. Some people might euphemistically label his style “heartfelt” or “raw,” but I’d call it “nauseatingly personal.” Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for emotion in music, but if you can’t bring it with panache and subtlety you’d best stay off the stage and out of the studio.


For all the above reasons, listening through to the end of this record a bit of a task for me. In fact, by the last track I was struggling to keep myself from clawing the paint off my walls. But I did finish it, and the only recommendation I can give goes to die-hard Bright Eyes fans who, for some strange reason, can’t get enough of the frontman. This record’s got an audience, sure, but I’m not it. I can’t even respect Oberst as a fellow singer-songwriter, because he’s famous AND he sucks! Argh. . . that really puts the piss in my coffee. Oh well. Time to cleanse my ears with some real music.


Disgruntled? Sure, I’ll grant you that. But fuck, it’s my opinion and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sugarcoat it. Malcontents, do your worst.