"The problem with Bright Eyes is he doesn't connect with his audience, there's something missing," and considering that I fell asleep at the one Oberst outing I flippantly attended back in college, I appreciated the eaves-dropped words of the disgruntled soul across the room. As Oberst's discography gets heavier, Cassadaga arrives with a similar heaviness, complete with lush musical soundscapes, an apocalyptic sense of alarm and some cathartic soul searching.

It's no surprise that the severed language of "rock's boy genius'" isn't alluring for every individual. The bittersweet neuroticism of Oberst's intricate storytelling commonly delves so inward that it's too close for comfort, and the words come across as uncomfortably raw and disconnected. The pretentious, stream-of-consciousness-meets-predetermined prophecy are definitely an acquired taste. But Cassadaga has a newfound sophistication, as Oberst's wobbling idiom smoothes everything out. His music weaves confidently in and out with country-spiked symphonic gestures, contrasting harshly from his crude vocal style.

Taking its title from the name of a Floridian spiritual camp, Cassadaga begins with "Clairaudients (Killed or Be Killed)," a twister of warped orchestral tunings that almost completely drown out the rough voice recorded from a conversation with a mystic. What follows is a slew of hyperbolic biblical references and accusations of the general public's tragic flaws and socio-political doom. Cleverly juxtaposing the vileness of consumerism and cheap porn, likening corporations to "the body of a center fold, it spreads," and bashing the "whore of Babylon" ("Four Winds"), Cassadaga is more squeamishly self-righteous than redeeming. Despite the lovely sentimentality of "Make a Plan to Love Me," Oberst cannot escape the blame game as he attacks the capitalistic greed of modernity.

Despite its instrumental sheen, Cassadaga is Oberst's own set of smug country spirituals, manipulating religious imagery. Experiencing it feels like sitting in on a Sunday trailer-park congregation. Oberst's passion is ambiguous, though, and considering the successful flight capitalism has given the indie king, his tales seem to cruelly pick on an American Christian demographic that simply doesn't know any better. Despite the obvious timbre change, Oberst stays right where he is, haughty and belittlingly distant from his audience.