I recently saw Conor Oberst play in Little Rock, Arkansas in a little bar that fits maybe 500 people. As I sat at a table drinking a beer and waiting for the opening act to come out, a wimpish looking man, with wiry black hair, unshaven face, and a beat up hat tilted over his eyes, came out of a private door and walked through the crowd across the venue and into another private door.
“I’m pretty sure that was Conor Oberst,” I turned and said to my roommate, Elliot, who had come with me on a whim, although he had never heard of Oberst.
“How do you not know if it was him or not?” he responded.
He had a good point. I laughed it off, and kept drinking.
Earlier that day, I was asked by a friend, “So who are you going to see again?”
I sighed, not really wanting to answer. “His name is Conor Oberst, he’s kind of a big deal to me, that’s why I want to go see him.”
“How long has he been around?”
I mentioned Bright Eyes, Oberst’s band that attained moderate success in the early to mid-2000s, and the name sparked some sense of familiarity.
“But he’s just on a solo tour right now,” I added. I would eventually find out at the show that he did in fact have a band behind him.
Then the dreaded question.
“What kind of music does he play?”
“Uh, I don’t know, he just plays guitar and some piano and writes songs and plays them. I would say it’s folk music.”
You know, just music. Is that so hard to believe?!
“So, like Ed Sheeran?”
Not quite. But okay.
“Yeah, like Ed Sheeran,” I said.
“It’s nothing spectacular, but he writes good songs,” I added self-consciously.
In a day and age where the spectacle of a show is just as important as the actual performance, it’s easy to see why Conor Oberst is not a household name like Ed Sheeran. But then again, Sheeran played a sold out show at Wimbley Stadium with only a guitar and loop pedal.
That’s an incredible accomplishment, and I have no doubt that he put in the work to get to that level of success. I am certainly not trying to downplay Ed Sheeran’s talents; he fully deserves to be at the level of fame he’s gotten to. And he just seems like a genuinely good guy.
But I can’t help but feel a certain spite towards someone like Ed Sheeran (though completely unjustified), with his solid songs backed by sleek sugary production flooding the radio stations. If it weren’t for the accent, I would just assume I was listening to a Jason Mraz song. (And that’s fine!)
I wanted to say to my inquisitive friend that Conor Oberst had once been considered the new Bob Dylan. But then I would be asked, “Who’s Bob Dylan?” and “What kind of music does he play?”
So I held back.
There were no long speeches or funny stories. Conor just thanked the crowd in between songs occasionally, and introduced members of his band at one point. But for the most part, the songs were the main focus, not Conor.
Honestly, he looked like shit. Maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize him earlier in the night as he walked by me, only inches away.
In my eyes, I had just gone to a show and watched one of the greatest songwriters in the world play some of his songs. I didn’t pretend to know half of the songs, but I hung onto every word. And I should add that his band rocked the hell out of it as well.
“Please please please sister Socrates, you always answer with a question, show some kindness to a petty thief”
I always liked that lyric in Conor’s 2008 track, Cape Canaveral, from his first solo album. I was happy that he played it.
A couple of weeks had passed since the show, and Elliot and I were playing our guitars in our living room. He had told me that he knew a guy that owned a bar and offered to let us play a few songs for a night. We had talked about trying to play somewhere just for fun, see how we would do. And maybe make some money. (And maybe get a record deal and become famous and die as legends. The unspoken dream.) I was all for it.
“I don’t care what we play, let’s just give it a try.”
All of a sudden, Elliot looked solemnly at his guitar, and a sense of hesitancy came out of him.
“I want to be able to look at my guitar leaning in the corner of my room and not have to say ‘there’s my broken dream’. I just want it to make me happy when I need it. I don’t want to see it as a reflection of my failure.”
We were fairly drunk.
I was taken aback by this comment. But it immediately made me think of Conor Oberst, the prodigy who was once called the new Bob Dylan, now playing to a small (yet fully committed crowd) in a small bar in Little Rock, Arkansas.
Is that what failure looks like?
Is playing Wimbley Stadium the pinnacle of success?
As far as I’m concerned, both Conor Oberst and Ed Sheeran are living the dream. Some singer-songwriters will continue to write and play their songs even when nobody in the crowd cares or listens, as long as they are able to make a living off of it. Ed Sheeran was busking on the streets for years before becoming the name behind some of the most streamed songs in Spotify’s history.
I could understand where Elliot was coming from. Many dreams are broken. It’s a one in a million chance that you will find any kind of serious success in music. But everyone has a different idea of success.
True artists will make art until they die. No matter who is paying attention.
I see little difference between Ed Sheeran and Conor Oberst in the fact that they both have a love of songwriting and a love of performing. And they’re both damn good at it.
While one is playing a small bar in Arkansas, the other is an internationally known pop star. Like the great John Prine says, “That’s the way the world goes ‘round.”
Here’s the closest Conor Oberst will most likely ever get to a sold-out show at Wimbley Stadium, and it’s a beautiful testament to the strength in his songwriting and intimacy of his performances. He means every word he says. I assume he will be writing songs and playing shows until he can’t anymore. Like all great artists, he doesn’t see any other way of living. He’s a troubadour. Forgotten by many, but not by those who care to listen.
