“The sound of loneliness makes me happier.”
It was the last line from, ultimately, the second-to-last song of the night: the loudest sing-along of the evening and a catharsis for generations of Bright Eyes fans. The 21st birthday for I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning and Digital Ash in a Digital Urn featuring Built to Spill was never fully realized on June 6, 2026, at Forest Hills Stadium in NYC, but for 45 minutes, 13,000 jubilantly-sad devotees sang, cried, and danced themselves back to 2005, completely unaware of the deluge on the way. Fitting. Underdogs at heart, Bright Eyes and their fans alike have become familiar with the word ‘cursed.’ And perhaps they are. Or perhaps people who pay such close attention to lyrics, motifs, crescendos, and melody also notice cosmic ironies and plain bad luck at an unfair gravity.
Children were the first to appear on stage at 6 pm sharp. As the audio from the opening “skit” from Bright Eyes’ seminal 2005 folk album I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning, kids dressed as airplanes and birthday cakes careened around the stage before lead singer Conor Oberst counted in to “At the Bottom of Everything.” A fitting, full-circle moment for a generation of Bright Eyes fans, many of whom had to pay a sitter to make their way to Queens for a night of sweet nostalgia and validation. He looked great, as he always does, in earth tones (penny loafers!?) and a jacket he could have borrowed from Neil Young. My first impression when the heavily sun-glassed band stepped on stage was, “stoned to the bone,” as the tempo seemed to drag a couple of BPM behind the record–or maybe that was me just projecting.
The crowd was ready. Love spilled back to Oberst and the band in generous leaps and bounds. We Bright Eyes fans pay attention to details. We know he’s been going through it in the past couple of years, and we’re so happy to see him healthy and fighting. Because 21 years later, we still need him– we all need a Conor Oberst and a band like Bright Eyes to get us through this Groundhog Day of American life. And while it might be the same old shit, 23-year-old Conor could have written this very album at 46 years of age, and every word would still hold as much weight as it did back in 2005.
This recognition did not go unnoticed by Oberst as he introduced “Old Soul Song” to the stadium crowd. A homecoming for him and this record, Conor was 23 years old when he wrote most of the songs from IWAIM while living in New York City. The United States was still on its 9/11 revenge tour, and here we are, in the midst of yet another war with a Middle Eastern country, inflicted on the world by yet another sad and lonely giant. Conor is a David to this Goliath, and true to form, he simply instructed us to just scream louder because we’re still fighting against wars no one ever fucking asked for, and for the 13,000 packed into an ancient tennis stadium.
Well, they went wild.
My wife joined me on my pilgrimage to Forest Hills on a hot but pleasant late-spring day, from our South Philly home to a stadium in Queens. This was her first time seeing Bright Eyes. Full disclosure: she’s not a Bright Eyes fan and had not heard either of the records in 2005, but she’s a fantastic audience member, and listened intently to the man and the band her husband has faithfully, often drunkenly, and always reverently referred to as the most important in his life. Lua was just Conor on stage. I don’t think I was the only one wondering if Phoebe Bridgers was still in town when this one started. But no Phoebe–just 13,000 strong singing along to every single word. It’s powerful, my wife said. “Everyone knows every word to every song.” We do, and we did.
“While the world waits for an explosion to wipe the slate clean.”
"Train Under Water" felt fitting as most of us did exactly that to get to Forest Hills Stadium on Saturday. I just wish we could have “waited out the weather,” but his prophecy was fulfilled. “Glory from a high rise and thanks for pouring my drinks” was probably how most of us spent the rest of our Saturday evening. I think we’re still waiting for the explosion that canceled and didn’t delay this show, but I was on a train underwater, not sure if it even rained.
Like most 43-year-olds, my wife had heard "First Day of My Life" before, but unlike many, she had it placed on our wedding playlist numerous times. This one hit me. I don’t know how he did it at 23: I’m sure starting at 14, endless touring, being friends with some of the best songwriters of his generation, and a vibrant New York scene of the early aughts provide some of the most potent ingredients for a work of pure genius. But still. Damn.
The second-loudest sing-along might have been when Oberst sings, “I’d rather be working for a paycheck than waiting to win the lottery.” And that is exactly what marriage is. To know that at 23…I don’t know if he did, but he wrote it. And it still resonates. Staggering.
By the time we got to "Travelin’ Song," it was a nice departure from the heady singer-songwriter song of the album to that point, and a much-needed reminder that this is a band. And damn good one. Two drummers, two backup singers, a guitarist, a bassist, and the founding members of Mike Mogis, Nate Walcott, and Oberst. There’s a “Whoop!” in this song: it happens twice, and it hit me for the first time yesterday–did Conor Oberst invent the stomp-clap folk phenomenon with those two whoops? It sure seems like the audience liked to whoop and, who knows, maybe a young Lumineers took notice back in the day.
Economy of language is a target for every good songwriter. Conor hits the mark with the added level of difficulty, say, blindfold, with figurative language. "Land Locked Blues" is a masterclass in metaphor and imagery. Another sparse arrangement: Oberst, backup singer, Mike on mandolin, and Nate on his trumpet, and a 13,000-member community singing every single word. Including the woman in front of me, dancing and seemingly singing every word as well.
I knew going in this one would get me, and it did. "Poison Oak" hits a level of songwriting that few bands ever reach: pure emotion devoid of cliché, fully raw and vulnerable, and delivered powerfully. Every. Single. Time. I don’t know if there was a dry eye in the stadium after it. Mike’s pedal steel solo mirrors the sentiment of Oberst’s lyrics and becomes a poem in and of itself. I told my wife during “We Are Nowhere” and “It’s Now” to pay attention to the yellow bird motif introduced in those songs. By the time it's revisited at the end of “Poison Oak,” I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. I don’t know, because it was pretty hard to see past my own.
The penultimate song fittingly ended the night with the return of the children, but this time they were there to “fuck things up and to make some noise.”
If someone had told me, “Hey, Bright Eyes is playing I’m Wide Awake It’s Morning at Forest Hills Stadium” with no mention of Digital Ash nor Built to Spill, I would’ve been ecstatic, and I would’ve bought my tickets just as quickly as I did this time around. So that’s how I’m choosing to experience this night: I got to see a vitally important band play their best record on a beautiful spring day in a historic tennis stadium nestled in what looks like a Hogwarts-esque neighborhood. Weather be damned. It was perfect.
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