Age has its privilege. Wizening away here on the wrong side of 30, I'm totally free not to hate Conor Oberst. When, some 10 to 15 years back, I huffily interpreted the lyrical excesses of doomed and gorgeous boypoets as assaults upon my own earthier yet misunderstood sensibility (in other words, when my personal stake in policing the lusts of scenegirl cuties was greater), I'd have cackled at the Sting-unworthy "So you nurse your love/Like a wounded dove/In the covered cage of night." Now I just want to hug the kid... More >>>