Ahhh, Fevers and Mirrors. Suburban angst at its finest. Conor Oberst gives the American youth an album meant to appeal to teenagers who aren't basking in the glow of The OC and Total Request Live. It's one of those albums to listen to when you really are...I don't know...not happy? If you're sad, it will make you more sad. And if you're happy, it will make you sad. It's not an uplifting album.
Oberst uses imagery of mirrors and scales to weave a common thread throughout the album's tepid, rather whiny songs. Well, good idea with the symbols, Conor, but the lyrics would do much better in songs with more interesting melodies. His unsteady voice (don't call it hurt or deep, the guy can hardly sing) quivers along unbalanced and lackluster melodies, simply trying to depress every American teenager into being just as sad as he seems (or pretends) to be. Sure, The Calendar Hung Itself has a unique rhythm and beat, but that song is the only one that I really gave a damn about.
Conor Oberst knows his words. That much can be said about him. But it all too much appeals to the generic hormonal teenage sadness that this album exploits. Waaaahh, my mom and dad don't like me, that girl won't ask me out, he'll never love me. If only Oberst put his lyrical skill to use, he could put out an album that actually can be listened to after age 16. And in the meantime, he can get someone to write his melodies for him. Two stars because he might be on the track to something better than this. The other three when he realizes that he takes his "psychosis" too seriousely.