Four Winds

When we last heard from Conor Oberst, it seemed there wasn't anyone to hear from but Conor Oberst. The rock world circa winter '05 was pretty much one long debutante ball for the Bright Eyes bard; every outlet from lowly 'zines to the venerable New Yorker set about anointing him the Dylan of our day. Glowing press breeds haters, but it was tough not to admire the guy. Not only were his fraternal twin albums -- the plaintive folker I'm Wide Awake It's Morning and the electronicized Digital Ash in a Digital Urn -- strong sets, but Oberst earned indie cred by sticking with his Omaha-based Saddle Creek crew in his time of fame.

If that was good news, here's better news: Oberst's new stuff improves on both those albums. Wide Awake, for all its troubadour inflected charm, was not endlessly listenable. Like many deeply intimate albums, it left us, at some point, needing a bit of personal space. Four Winds (an EP culled from the recording sessions that also produced the upcoming full-length Cassadaga, with which it shares only its title track) comes with no such caveats. One can merrily listen to it for days.

Try that title track and see why. Oberst's concern on Wide Awake was modern America, but Conor himself was the vector through which we saw it. "Four Winds" leaves the bedroom and takes to the highways and byways: Americana now means swooning fiddles and jammy country-rock chords. Oberst's reedy vocals, long seen as a prototype of indie waifishness, hold up surprisingly well against the newly meaty music.

Eagle-eared listeners may spot the term "badlands" in "Four Winds," and the evocation of Springsteen gains meaning in second track "Reinvent the Wheel." The scruffy classic-rock powerhouse serves up the sort of piano stomps and wailing harmonica that the Boss often staked his sound on. If Oberst is looking to broaden the scale of Dylan-esque poetry, he's picked the right model.

"Stray Dog Freedom" and "Cartoon Blues" also find the artist flexing biceps we didn't know he had: "Freedom" issues blizzards of electric guitar and pumping drums. It's as though a '70s pleasant rock band -- America, Bread, take your pick -- said what it really felt. "Blues" brings back the country, matching Oberst's protesting lyrics with flaming banjo.

But a quiet turn may stand as the EP's highlight. "Smoke Without Fire," which features a cameo by fellow indie quill M. Ward, is a twilit reverie gently curling around flugelhorn and crisp guitar. It's the old Bright Eyes (strummy, pensive) mixed with the new (abstract, warm, countrified), and the pairing enchants.