When David Dondero's The Transient arrived in 2003, a sticker came attached to its shrink wrap. It was a quote from Conor Oberst, who at the time was just beginning to shed his skin as an emo pin-up and make indie rock inroads: "It was hearing David Dondero's voice," he said "that made me comfortable with my own." At the time, Dondero and Oberst were making very different music, the former churning out road-worn folk blues, the latter making pop with the last bit of somewhat awkward, teenaged angst Omaha could supply him. But the similarity between their ragged vibratos was striking, and as their songbooks have both continued to thicken over the years-- one to great commercial and critical success and the other not so much-- it's become all the easier to hear what it was about Dondero's poesy that hit Oberst where it counted. He has a terrific ear and eye for simple detail, for spinning songs out of the mundane just as deftly as standards like love and loss. But #Zero With A Bullet, Dondero's third record on you-know-who's Team Love imprint, seems at times as though it could be his last altogether. He sounds like a guy ready to hang up his spurs.
That rings clearly within the first licks of opener "Jesus From 12 to 6", when Dondero whispers "I've got a feeling there's no more left/ Feeling now that it's holding on like the death/ I need to get away, I don't trust a goddamned thing that I say/ I really need to get away from me." Sonically, he's running the same classic rock lane Oberst has drifted into. But Dondero's in another world altogether. He uses the title track to self-flagellate for a while, quaking extensively about how commercial failures have left him in a bad way. "Got lost on the road," he sings. "No records got sold/ Number Zero with a bullet, think you already know it/ I sure hope I don't blow it." But it's not sour grapes as much as a four-minute sigh. If you spend any amount of time going to shows or reading tour announcements on this site, taking a look at Dondero's schedule reads much differently. Seventeen years in and there aren't any nights off, playing what look to be dives (see also: taverns, saloons) more than rock clubs, most likely sleeping in his car after the show. Every lonesome minute of "It's So Peaceful Here" suggests quietly, though, that he's totally content right there. Alongside some gorgeous pedal steel, Dondero cycles through Rocky Mountain road scenes with an ease and peace that befits its title.
The song itself is a point for transition as well as resolution: No longer beating on himself or worrying his well might dry, the second half of the album hits a stride that comes by way of thoughtful sequencing and even better songcraft. In fact, he writes the shit out of every song that follows. "Wherever You Go" comes alive to the sound of wind chimes before a gust jars the mic and Dondero hits rodeos and coastlines, chaining together some truly fantastic guitar and banjo melodies as he goes, no shortage of energy to be heard. On "Job Boss" he paints a portrait of a dickhead in charge that could make you dread going to work, and best of all, within the ornery shuffle of "Don't Be Eyeballin' My Po'Boy, Boy", he gives you the lowdown on where to find a number of good Po'Boys in New Orleans. It sounds sharp and it'll leave you hungry. That's the mark of a gifted songwriter.
