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Since the release of 2007's Cassadaga, Bright Eyes frontman Conor Oberst has been either touring or cruising around the country in his car. On his new solo disc — which isn't a Bright Eyes project because it doesn't feature longtime collaborator Mike Mogis — the Omaha, Nebraska, singer-songwriter reflects on road trips through Florida ("Cape Canaveral") and Northern California ("Sausalito"). And on "Moab," Oberst sings the mantra "There's nothing that the road cannot heal." To record the set, Oberst decamped to Mexico — musicians, girls and recording gear in tow. "I knew I didn't want to be in a studio," says Oberst, 28. "It was beautiful, warm and remote, and they didn't mind us making noise."
What was the daily routine in Mexico?
I like to sleep in late, but my room didn't have very dark blinds,
so by noon the sun was wailin'. We'd eat some lunch and just play
all afternoon. Sometimes we'd play real late — and sometimes
we'd just make a bonfire, drink beer and look at the stars.
How was the studio set up?
The control room was a little room, but most of the time we sat on
a porch where the piano was, because it didn't fit through the
door. Ruben, whose family lives and works on the property, would
hang out with us after his wife and daughter went to bed. His
nightly ritual was to go out and blow a conch, so it seemed to make
sense to record it and put it on a track ["Valle Mistico (Ruben's
Song)"] on the album.
So it's a Conor Oberst record because Mike Mogis didn't
play on it. But why is it called Conor
Oberst?
Laziness. I just thought it didn't need a title. It wasn't a
statement of any kind.
What's the latest on your project with Jim James and M.
Ward?
We did some recording at Shangri-La in L.A. earlier this year.
We're all on tour right now, and we'd need to get together again to
finish it. I should also say that Mike Mogis is in the band too.
It's so powerful and magical to be around those guys. It's like
being in a band with three wizards.
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Your new video for "Souled Out" features a shirtless
Conor Oberst. . . .
I was in a pool!
OK! I wanted to ask about the tattoo above your
heart.
I got it in Vegas, when I was, like, 20. The design is from some
wallpaper — sailboats and a nautical theme — from my
childhood room. I had to get my mom to rip a piece off and FedEx it
to me. Me and my friend Ted Stevens, from the band Cursive, decided
two days beforehand that we'd do it. They're not matching tattoos
— he's got an anchor — but it was like a blood-brothers
ritual.
On "Sausalito," you sing, "I close my eyes, and I see a
staircase." Do songs come from your dreams?
That has happened, and it's always amazing. A friend recently said
to me that he thinks that songs are like dreams. Sometimes you'll
dream about the day you just lived, but there'll be something in
there that doesn't make any sense. That's true with songs too.
Can you pinpoint the moment you came up with the song
title "I Don't Want to Die (in the Hospital)"?
Yeah, I was having a conversation with a friend of mine who
celebrated his 75th birthday a few months ago.
Willie Nelson?
[Laughs] No. This guy didn't mind the idea of dying, but he just
didn't want to die in such an undignified place. He wanted to be
out in the desert, under the stars. He told me if he was ever in a
hospital that I should break him out. It's a jailbreak song.
How did you cope with the insect situation in rural
Mexico?
Well, I killed a scorpion. It was an alien-looking thing, about the
size of one of those mini-golf pencils. I put my boots on, sprung
across the bedroom and stepped on it. That was pretty exciting! I
don't like killing things, but at some point, it's you or them.
[From Issue 1061 — September 18, 2008]
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