On my left at Bright Eyes' Toronto stop last week was a cluster of scenesters who would have been at the Strokes a couple of years ago. On my right was a young woman who started sobbing uncontrollably at the mere sight of Conor Oberst, the wunderkind behind what's really just a one-man act. And all around was a crowd that looked like it came expecting a straight-out rock concert, but hooted and hollered and whistled at every note that spilled from Oberst's lips.

Suffice it to say that times have changed.

Oberst is an unrepentantly emotive and self-indulgent 24-year-old who looks like a prettier, more precious version of Joaquin Phoenix. His wavery singing voice constantly cracking with emotion, he comes off as a frail, wounded man-child.

That he writes very, very good songs -- folksy numbers, mostly, that challenge the listener to hang on to every carefully constructed turn of phrase and earn the inevitable Dylan comparisons -- would not have mattered until recently. Nor would an absurdly prolific back catalogue that started when he was 14. Even just a couple of years ago, when rock stars still weren't supposed to look or act or sound like him, the Nebraska native seemed to be doing well just to have attracted a cult following.

Not anymore. Last fall saw Oberst topping Billboard's singles chart, becoming the first artist to simultaneously hold down the top two positions since 1997. Now, with two separate albums released this week, he's being hyped as America's best young songwriter.

Unique talent though he may be, Oberst is certainly in the right place at the right time. The lingering backlash against the generic stuff that still dominates most "new rock" airwaves has listeners looking for something more cerebral. The O.C. era of indie as the new pop has plucked tortured artists from obscurity and turned them into matinee idols. And stormy political times have his protest songs and odes to disaffection striking a chord with the kids.

Of course, taking the next step from cult hero to icon means getting a little more accessible than he was on his last album, 2002's Lifted, or the Story Is in the Soil, Keep Your Ear to the Ground -- an overwrought if engaging effort loaded with myriad eccentricities, from 10-minute tracks to orchestral arrangements and midstream vocal freak-outs.

For most artists, releasing two albums simultaneously would not be the best way to strip down to the bare essentials. But by giving each of his split musical personalities its own disc, Oberst has made it work for him.

The heavily electronic, disarmingly death-obsessed Digital Ash in a Digital Urn is not without its charms. But while listenable, it's mostly forgettable; with the exception of a few instances where he breaks through the clutter, including the hit single Take It Easy (Love Nothing), it sounds like a competent Cure knockoff worthy of lesser talents.

Digital Ash, though, serves a distinct purpose: It lets Oberst get his experimental excesses out of his system. And the beneficiary is this week's second release.

I'm Wide Awake, It's Morning has its indulgences -- it begins, notably, with Oberst calmly narrating a story about a plane crash, as though warning unsuspecting bandwagon jumpers that he's not going to make this easy. But from there, he plunges headfirst into the curiously life-affirming At the Bottom of Everything, and neverlooks back as he carves out a countrified folk classic.

Exhibiting a new-found maturity, he adds a touch of restraint to his vocals -- rather than hitting us over the head with his emotions, he lets them simmer just under the surface. The songs themselves are tighter, too; unlike Lifted, there's no fat to be trimmed. It's Oberst laid bare, his poetry allowed to speak for itself, and, as it turns out, that's the way he was meant to be heard.

Oberst's skill is in giving us snapshots through a foggy lens, from someone staggering dazedly through a life that's moving too fast for him. "The world's got me dizzy again," he sings to Emmylou Harris' accompaniment in Land Locked Blues. "You'd think after 22 years I'd be used to the spin."

Old Soul Song finds him searching for deeper meaning as he wanders through an anti-war protest. The gorgeous Lua, which immediately follows, has him wandering the city with another lost soul, fuelled by chemicals and realizing how hard it will all be to rationalize once the sun comes up. Together they make for quite a one-two punch, and, as on the rest of the album, he winds up sounding exactly like what he is -- a confused small-town kid trying to find his way through Manhattan at the same time as he's navigating his way around himself.

Already prone to rubbing people the wrong way (it doesn't help that he's currently refusing most interview requests, shipping an interview CD instead), Oberst may yet provoke a backlash of epic proportions. But this is his hour. An improbable Everyman, he's wound up speaking to a lot more young Americans than he probably ever planned on.