When something new strikes enough of a nerve to actually leave a wake of hope and inspiration, pundits and laymen alike rush to crown it as “the next” in a line of greatness. LeBron James is “the next Michael Jordan,” Jack White is “the next Jimi Hendrix” and so on. While the pigeonholing has to be flattering, it holds the newbies against a template already drawn. Thus has been the case with Conor Oberst, who for years has been anointed “the next Bob Dylan.” While the Nebraska wordsmith wrangles his lyrics with panache akin to Mr. Zimmerman, he’s far more confessional than Dylan ever was. On his recently released eponymous solo set, the troubadour has officially morphed into the first Conor Oberst. The 12-song collection meanders from erstwhile rock (“I Don’t Want to Die In the Hospital),” to traveling ditties (“Moab“) and introspective folk gems (“Milk Thistle“). While Oberst isn’t redefining music, he is putting his own unmistakable stamp on it, which is something no one else seems to be doing today. For that reason he really does stand alone. By Paul Saitowitz