It's not because the record is flawless — far from it, what with the abundant razor-to-wrist earnestness and bloated aggrandizing. The phone-recorded psychobabble opener "Clairaudients (Kill or Be Killed)" announces the record's metaphysical theme with the subtlety of a carnival gypsy. The swaggering chutzpah of "Soul Singer in a Session Band" recalls the rhinestone portentousness of Neil Diamond's "Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show." And what's up with "No One Would Riot for Less" nicking post-Waters Pink Floyd? Or the Peter Gabriel—inspired tour of Middle Eastern exotica on "Coat Check Dream Song?" Shit, if nearly half of it weren't such a drag, Cassadaga would be amazing.
But redemption? Start with the high-harmonizing, floor-stomping chorus of "Four Winds" — a rare instance where fiddle (singular) is chosen over violins (plural), while Conor screams about the devil and Babylon while indiscriminately name-checking a Joan Didion book. Weirdly, it still works, and so does "Hot Knives," a hard-swinging shuffle about "hot knives on a dance floor" (whatever that means). "Classic Cars" is so confident in its construction that wonky sentiments about lying "beside her in a bed made for a queen" and getting "out of California" get a pass. And comparatively easygoing Americana tunes like "Middleman" and "I Must Belong Somewhere" show off Conor's prodigious gifts as a songwriter. At its core, that's where Cassadaga succeeds — via moments so brilliant we're blind to the duds. Anyone with a few Dylan or Diamond records certainly knows the feeling.
