Bright Eyes, the indie pride of Nebraska, is a big enough deal to be worth talking about, so I wanted to review the band's new album, Cassadaga. The problem is, I didn't really want to listen to it.

Every time I would have time to get into it, I would opt for music I already knew I liked, fearing that Cassadaga would be like other Bright Eyes albums: mild, pompous and not really worth listening to. Preconceived notions made it a difficult album to even put on, let alone review.

When I finally dealt with the inevitability and actually listened to the album, my initial apprehensions were replaced by a smug sense of validated foresight, as the opening six-minute track was primarily a recording from a resident of the eponymous Cassadaga, Fla., a community for spiritualists and psychics.

Quickly, though, the album picks up. The twangy guitars and well-meaning fiddles make Cassadaga feel more like a hoedown than the lyrical symposium typical of a Bright Eyes album.

Amidst clever lyrics and unique instrumentation, Cassadaga is, at its core, pure Americana, a huge departure for Oberst and his typical politically-driven ideologies, instead embracing what this country has to offer.

For what is basically a folk album, the instrumentation is a little too diverse and the arrangements are probably a little too baroque.

The departure from the electronic orchestration that Bright Eyes has used on past albums is an adventurous decision that pays off with Cassadaga's down-home, country feel.

It shows an overall maturation and logical step forward from I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning.

The embracing of a more folksy style makes Cassadaga the most accessible Bright Eyes album to date.

Not all change is for the better, however. It's almost as though Conor Oberst -- who couldn't be more of a music scene stereotype if he tried -- has simplified (see: dumbed down) his lyrics as a direct response to criticisms of pretension. He's not quite Fred Durst, but the comparisons to Bob Dylan are way premature.

Oberst is undeniably an intelligent lyricist, but I have trouble calling him that without also mentioning his penchant for pretentiousness and a proclivity towards oversensitivity.

Still present is Oberst's affinity for imagery and all things metaphorical, but in the shift to simplicity Oberst seems to have sacrificed the sincerity on which he built his reputation.

As a result, Cassadaga's lyrics lack the profundity and punch to make up for an otherwise sonically placid album.

Grade: C-