ALBUMS // Better Oblivion Community Center
Post by J
It is a surprisingly simple task to ignore the fact that the only certain thing in this life is its end. But given the general state of things I find myself increasingly unable to fight off those intrusive thoughts that grip my skull with icy hands. Coming into adulthood as the world seems to be crumbling down around us produces a very particular reality: perpetually shallow breath, the inexplicable urge to laugh when things are sad or scary; a kind of angry sleep paralysis within a waking nightmare.
Phoebe Bridgers and Conor Oberst take a refreshingly realistic approach to the chilling, unavoidable contemplation of mortality in an era in which utter destruction seems to loom closer than we ever imagined. At once brutally honest and mercifully gentle, perfectly understanding the contradictions and tensions that tug at these increasingly frequent moments of crushing awareness, Bridgers and Oberst offer an open invitation, an imperfect lesson. In ten tracks and less than forty minutes, the wide open doors of the Better Oblivion Community Center offer a lull; a cup of cold black coffee or a few beers; a soundproof room or echo chamber to scream into; someone to sit with, in silence and in solidarity.
The cathartic acknowledgement and validation of exponentially increasing uncertainty is one and the same understanding of what makes those little moments of purpose so important. Despite (or in spite of) this increased hyperawareness, we also have to let ourselves forget, again and again. It is how we cope, how we survive. While it makes the remembering ever-painful, and guilt at inaction or what we perceive as selfishness becomes an almost knee-jerk reaction, the respite is worth it. We have to keep living our messy lives.
Our varied lives, in all their beauty and heartbreak and anger and euphoria. The acoustic slow-burning melancholy and the buzzing distorted anxiety. The brief, sweet, ever-surprising carry of Bridgers’ voice, dreamy and lilting, soaring above Oberst’s scratchy, silty tone, like the aching bittersweet pull at your heart when you see a picture of your ex or think about your friends from high school. As important as it is to stay present, it can also be painful, and escaping into the vast worlds of our memories (however spotty or fading or surreal) is, more often than not, necessary to move forward, to even be able to fathom our current existence.
This album does not cut corners. It doesn’t romanticize. It takes the world as it is, stares this burning building in the face with bloody teeth and a ragged smile as the greedy flames jump to the next rooftop. But it stretches out a hand, too. Living might just be a promise that we’ve all made, but we’ve made this promise together.
Buy Better Oblivion Community Center‘s debut self-titled here, out now via Dead Oceans. Catch them on tour this spring. Tickets here.