Like a postgraduation nightmare spurred by a midnight screening of American Beauty and a 7-Eleven burrito, this 31-minute debut is the sort of howlingly tuneful Midwestern punk that disappeared with Husker Du. Front-waif Conor Oberst, whose LPs as Bright Eyes are more interior affairs, here storms the tract-home, strip-mall wasteland of an over-mortgaged, gender-role-trapped nation.
Represented with cracked voice and conflicted heart, the purity of his dissatisfaction is a thing of wonder. Stay mad, kid. A-