Bright Eyes

Bright Eyes @ The Barfly 23rd June 2004

This is the night after the night before. The night before was Shepherds Bush Empire, where Conor seemed shy and out of place and slightly overwhelmed. 2000 people scream, yet seem despondent and don’t let go (DANCE!). These are 2000 people who probably paw over every lyric, twist, harmony and hook. 2000 people who’re dissatisfied with everything else, because no-one is doing what Connor is doing right now. No-one else is even close to being a modern day icon like this. Connor’s a muddle of punk discontent, folk splendour and classical muso fringes, and you’d think topping it off with some of the finest observational metaphorical tales from a romantic dreamer, trapped in a faux-real world, would be more important right now than any band on any magazine cover or radio playlist… We’ve gotta believe the good will out.

This is history? As he takes to the tiny Barfly stage the rooms anticipation of whether this intimate show, announced just hours ago, will be THE ONE or rather, will it not be a shambolic drunken fight with nerves which ends with Connor insulting fans (like what he did at Dingwalls). Cat Power and Ryan Adams fans know what I mean. The guitarist from Yeah Yeah Yeahs stands in one corner, a girl playing harp sits in the other, plus there’re trumpets and keys…

An hour or so later, the harp-drenched set ends speckled with ‘the hits’ like ‘Haligh…’, ‘Going for Gold’ (you could feel the whole room swoon!), ‘Lover I Don’t Have to Love..’ and for a second night running a newie called ‘November 22nd’ (taken from the work-in-progress album due later this year). The warmth of a mexican sunset glares on a rotting corpse. Words like triumphant and incendiary and historic always read like fake hyperbole, but tonight was all those things as heads filled with fireworks of epiphanies and realisations as new connotations seem to rain down all sorts of new avenues… it feels like fairies are dieing every time he opens his mouth.

For a second night running, the crowd barely moves. Why I’m the only one who feels like dancing and swaying, I‘ll never know. Praps tonight is my confession? My uncool truth mirroring his honesty. His pain diverting our fears. I’m making up for 360 other nights of the year that fail to satisfy my need for late night story telling, spiked with rants. I’m making up for living in a time where we have no true counter-culture icons; no Dylan’s, Lou’s, Bowie’s… The slightly-outta-tune poet for our generation leaves the stage in search of Whisky…

Just as it feels like that’s it, we’ve got our £9 worth; he stumbles up, alone, picks up his acoustic and bursts into ‘Made of Paint’. And it’s lines like “I’m trite and cheap and a waste, of paint, of time… but it’s all I want, to be loved, to be free…” that the amassed have come to hear and feel. And even when the last chord has rung out, people are still standing, hoping for more. We’re confused whether this THE ONE, but only the history books can shed a little light on that…
Sean Adams

I saw him at Glastonbury too. Aside from my 'is that nick zimmer?' squinting, i was very very very very impressed by this Bright Eyes boy. And i'm not easily impressed.

It's Zinner? I could have sworn Zimmer. Well, ok.
Sorry.
:(