Andrew Bird: Are You Serious

ANDREW BIRD: ARE YOU SERIOUS (2016)

1) Capsized; 2) Roma Fade; 3) Truth Lies Low; 4) Puma; 5) Chemical Switches; 6) Left Handed Kisses; 7) Are You Serious; 8) Saints Preservus; 9) The New Saint Jude; 10) Valleys Of The Young; 11) Bellevue; 12*) Shoulder Mountain; 13*) Pulaski.

Bird likes to be prolific in so many different ways that the border between «basic» albums and «special» (live, ambient, cover, etc.) projects in his career tends to become blurred; but, the way I see it, Are You Serious is really his first «basic» album in about four years, since at least Break It Yourself — comprised of bona fide art-pop songs and nothing else. It appears that, after seve­ral years of fiddling about, the idea here was to produce something normal and accessible, reflec­ting his new family life and values, and, indeed, the songs are generally less cryptic lyrically and less provocative musically than you'd typically expect from the man.

And that is perfectly all right with me, except the record does little to shatter my belief that An­drew is about a decade past his creative peak already (which is not a crime — not even the Beatles had themselves the luxury of ten uninterrupted years of creative growth); then again, an album that pursues intimately personal goals need not necessarily strive for originality as well, and this one is just a bunch of family-oriented songs from the most light-footed loner in modern pop music, and should be taken as such, and enjoyed like a familiar, predictable, but still deli­cious gourmet dinner.

Most of the songs combine sincerity with catchiness and — how could we make without that? — a lyrical or musical allegory or two. The very first song, ʽCapsizedʼ, will reassure us that, happily settled family man or not, this is still the same old neurotic Andrew Bird, and he still needs some­body by his side when he has to pull it together, and there's just no telling how much worse things get when the somebody in question goes missing: "another break up, this ship is capsized", and we get archaic references to Jesus making our dying bed. The accompanying music is like a cross between James Brown and Tom Waits, borrowing the funkiness of the former and the hoarse, distorted approach to instrumentation of the latter, with broken guitar riffs that could have come from Marc Ribot (actually, they come from Blake Mills) — but unlike either of them, Andrew never loses his cool, so that most of the drama is implicit, reflected in the tense, suspenseful atmosphere but never breaking through to the surface.

It's all about paranoia, really — a set of songs written by somebody who allegedly feels confused and insecure around other people, and then finally finds himself in that embarrassing position when someone (even someone loved) is always around. "And if she sees you, it changes you / Rearranges your molecules", he sings on ʽRoma Fadeʼ to an oddly danceable and bizarrely morose beat, continuing and appropriating the old tradition of «love's a wonderfully dangerous and dangerously wonderful thing». It gets worse on ʽPumaʼ: "She was radioactive for seven days / How I wanted to be holding her anyways / But the doctors, they told me to stay away / Due to flying neutrinos and the gamma rays" — no, this is not misogyny, this is more like an inverted case of autophobia, with Bird's jerky, hopping staccato violin rhythms reflecting his agitated state of mind and the seeming impossibility of making the right choice.

Musically, the songs seem to draw upon all sorts of local pop traditions, from Mexican to Carib­bean to French to Celtic to good old 1970s R&B, but all the influences are softly converted to «Andrew Bird music», based on violins and jazzy guitars, and essentially it feels like the man has no preferences whatsoever — as long as the whole thing does not come close to stereotypical «rock» or «pop», and as long as he's allowed to keep that guitar / violin setup, anything goes at any time. One of the simpler, folksier songs is a duet with Fiona Apple (ʽLeft Handed Kissesʼ), who, I guess, could in certain respects be viewed as the female Andrew Bird, so the collaboration should come across as natural — yes and no, because with these two certified loners, they have no chemistry whatsoever, and even when they're singing at the same time, they're pretty much doing it without noticing that the other guy is in the same room, so... (actually, most of the time he's not even looking at her in the accompanying video, so even visually it feels as if they're talking to each other and to the wall simultaneously). It's kinda cute, even if there's a bit of pre­tentious artificialness to the performance.

In any case, the biggest deal here is that it's easier to relate to a record like this than it is to relate to most of Andrew's usual dialogs with his inner demons, where you really have to be one of the demons in question to «get» everything that is going on. This, and the fact that repeated listens will have the melodies to at least ʽCapsizedʼ, the title track, and ʽPumaʼ stuck in your head for days,  is what makes the record stand out a good bit from the rest of Andrew's over-inflated latter day catalog, even if it does not exactly promise a brighter future. Thumbs up, and a special re­commendation for highly sensitive boys with lotsa girl troubles, just to let you know that you're not alone, and maybe you should pick up some violin lessons.

Andrew Bird: Echolocations: Canyon

ANDREW BIRD: ECHOLOCATIONS: CANYON (2015)

1) Sweep The Field; 2) Groping The Dark; 3) Rising Water; 4) Antrozous; 5) The Return Of Yawny; 6) Before The Germans Came; 7) The Canyon Wants To Hear C Sharp.

In 2015, Andrew Bird packed his violin and some recording equipment, travelled all the way to the Coyote Gulch canyons in Utah, and conducted a serious scientific experiment to answer the question: "If one plays a violin inside a canyon, will there be an echo?" The results would not only be self-sufficient on their own, but would also function as a part of an installation (of course) presented at the Boston Insti­tute of Contemporary Art for three months, during which any Bosto­ner unable to scrape up the money for a ticket to Utah could come visit and experience what it would be like if you had to spend fifty minutes in a canyon, playing your violin.

Needless to say, we here at Only Solitaire immediately had to alert the trusty Bullshit Patrol; but, either out of sheer respect for the hitherto illustrious career of Mr. Bird, or for some deeper rea­son, perhaps, the Patrol refused to make an arrest, stating that, although the album is definitely expe­rimental, it is (a) eminently listenable and (b) experimental in the good sense of the word, as in, «somebody who is genuinely searching for new sounds in hopes of tapping into some hitherto unexplored corner of one's emotions». Nobody can insist that the tapping actually took place, but the attempt is at least curious, and at most — pleasant.

Obviously, this is an ambient-minimalist record, with Andrew Bird presenting himself as the Brian Eno of the violin, using it as an impressionist tool while various nature sounds (wind and water, mostly — apparently, there's nothing like an Andrew Bird violin melody to scare all the actual coyotes away) are reverberating in the background. But it is not particularly dissonant, and the things he plays are, in fact, quite diverse — ranging from deconstructed elements of some baroque violin partita (ʽSweep The Fieldʼ, which begins that way and then turns into more of a modern classical piece for violin and whistle) to loops of pretty flourishes without a cause (ʽGro­ping The Darkʼ) to attempts at emulating an Indian, sitar-like sound with the violin (ʽAntro­zousʼ). ʽBefore The Germans Cameʼ, despite the title, sounds like the man's tribute to Bach; and while I am not positively sure if ʽThe Canyon Wants To Hear C Sharpʼ, not being in any way related to the canyon or anything, that last composition gives the impression of somebody trying to play a serious blues jam on solo violin, with more Eastern elements woven in for good measure.

Therefore, to avoid falling into the iron hands of the Bullshit Patrol, you'd probably be better off forgetting about the general setting of the recording — honestly, most of the time you'd have no idea that this was not recorded in a studio, and who really cares? — and just view this as a set of experimental violin pieces played by somebody who actually understands what he's doing. As an ambient record, the violin and particularly Bird's individualistic manner of playing it make it a somewhat unique experience, and somehow it still manages to remain permeated with his lonely, melancholic spirit. Well, as Jimi said, "If the Boston Institute of Contemporary Art fell in the sea — let it be, it ain't me, 'cos Andrew Bird got his own world to look through, and at least he ain't gonna copy Vanessa Mae". And since I'm in no position to disagree with Jimi, the worst I can do is not give this record a thumbs up, because I honestly did not enjoy it that much — and besides, it's only the first one in an announced series that promises to bring you even more of those «echolocations» before the industry runs out of violin strings (including Rivers, Cities, Dungeons, Dragons, and Donald Trump's Esophagus), so I'm saving up on thumbs in ad­vance. But it's got mood-setting potential, all right, and it is Andrew Bird, after all: one of the few modern musicians with near-impeccable taste, whether you hate it or love it.

Andrew Bird: Things Are Really Great Here, Sort Of

ANDREW BIRD: THINGS ARE REALLY GREAT HERE, SORT OF (2014)

1) Cathedral In The Dell; 2) Tin Foiled; 3) Giant Of Illinois; 4) So Much Wine, Merry Christmas; 5) My Sister's Tiny Hands; 6) The Sad Milkman; 7) Don't Be Scared; 8) Frogs Singing; 9) Drunk By Noon; 10) Far From Any Road.

This is yet another «minor» release, perhaps not worth a lengthy review, but well worth a few verbal niceties. Either suffering from writer's block (and I certainly do not blame him for that at this point in his career), or simply in search for something slightly different, our friend Andrew here releases a short CD with ten covers of songs by The Handsome Family — an alt-country duo from Chicago/Albuquerque, consisting of husband and wife Brett and Rennie Sparks. I've lis­tened to a few of these songs in their original versions, and they sound more or less like an alt-country record is supposed to sound: firmly rooted in the genre's basics, but bravely struggling to avoid the genre's clichés and overall shallowness — lyrically intelligent, musically competent, listenable, but not particularly inspiring.

The Andrew Bird touch, though, does these songs some major good. Sparse, minimalistic arran­gements (although he does employ all of his band from the previous album) and especially Bird's familiar tenor give them extra romantic vulnerability and extra emotional depth; he also makes significant melodic changes to suit his own style — for instance, the original ʽFar From Any Roadʼ had a bit of a spaghetti-western aura to it, with an epic brass section and all, whereas Bird's guitar-and-eerie-violin-only arrangement actually does a better job of conveying a wanderer's desert experience with a lonely cactus.

One thing about the Sparks duo (no, not those Sparks — Brett and Rennie, I mean) is that they write almost surprisingly decent lyrics, which frequently attract more attention than the music and may actually explain Bird's interest in them. Not every country outfit, not even every alt-country outfit, would write a song about the Köln Cathedral, for instance, and then go from there to a "fiberglass castle in Wisconsin" (ʽCathedral In The Dellʼ) — but somehow Andrew Bird seems just like the guy that you'd associate with singing a song that takes the Cathedral as its central metaphor, maybe because everything about Bird is so «high», like the Cathedral itself — the singing, the whistling, the violin playing, always stuck somewhere high up in the clouds.

Then there's the mystical/religious metaphors, like the one with the cactus in the desert, where it is hard to understand if the metaphor is spiritual or amorous or both, but the desert imagery is used cleverly all the same, and Bird's haunting arrangement does phenomenally well agree with New Mexican desert at sunset (something I have had the pleasure of experiencing personally a few times, so I know what I'm talking about here), making ʽFar From Any Roadʼ the definitive highlight of this brief experience.

That said, do not expect any great songwriting or innovative arrangements on the whole: the basic structures of the songs are fairly traditional, the style is fairly well unified, and there are no attempts to dazzle the listener (in fact, Bird's violin is kept strictly in check throughout, and the acoustic guitar parts are not particularly interesting by themselves). I would say that the most intriguing aspect of the album is simply that we get to witness the process of taking a non-Bird song and effortlessly transforming it into a Bird song — so it is instructive to listen to this stuff back to back with the originals, see how this man's brain works «when given the data». Without the originals, this is simply another small bunch of very typical and predictable Andrew Bird, albeit with some new, different lyrical angles. Short and sweet, I give it a usual thumbs up, but only because it is adequately low on ambition — and offers us no clue as to whether this guy still has it in him to properly amaze us, rather than give us what we already well know, sometime in the near (or faraway) future.

Andrew Bird: Hands Of Glory

ANDREW BIRD: HANDS OF GLORY (2012)

1) Three White Horses; 2) When That Helicopter Comes; 3) Spirograph; 4) Railroad Bill; 5) Something Biblical; 6) If I Needed You; 7) Orpheo; 8) Beyond The Valley Of The Three White Horses.

Two fully formed LPs over the course of one year might be a bit too much even for a wonderboy of Andrew Bird's caliber, so do not expect any big deals from Hands Of Glory, which is basi­cally just a little pony companion to the big white steed of Break It Yourself. It is sparse, mini­malistically produced, very much country-oriented, not entirely self-written, with a subset of co­vers ranging from traditional folk to Townes Van Zandt — definitely not an attempt to win over a new bunch of fans, rather just a small extra Thanksgiving gift for the old ones.

Other than this humble statement of fact, I am not even sure what to say. The textures, moods, vocals, instrumental techniques, everything here has already been commented upon in preceding reviews. The people at Pitchfork tried choosing a general «apocalyptic» angle, indicating that many, if not most, of these songs deal with visions of the end of the world, destruction, redemp­tion, and resurrection, but with Andrew Bird, these themes are actually always on the edge of the knife — his trademark fin-du-siècle melancholy has always been that of a morose guy with a fiddle, sitting on the ravine's edge, waiting for the shit to hit the fan once he finally plays his last note and puts down the instrument. Who cares if now, on a couple of songs, he is adding some words on the same subject to the music? The effect is still the same.

In a way, it almost looks like the first seven songs have all been assembled here just to provide a «conventional» intro to the album's longest, and only «experimental» number — ʽBeyond The Valley Of The Three White Horsesʼ, with a «looped» reference to the album's opening number, throws on some majorly stoned psychedelic thrills, starting off as a completely innocent ins­trumental shuffle, then gradually burrowing its way into a whirly-wobbly tunnel of sound as the violin backgrounds are phased, inverted, mortified, and sucked out into space. The effect can be donwright hallucinogenic in a proper context — problem is, in an unproper context, it can be se­verely irritating instead, and who knows which context you will be hearing it in? For every per­son for whom this «works», there will be another one who will accuse Andrew Bird of «Going Gaga à la Björk», and the world will not have come one step closer to peace and love for all.

Still, the seven «normal» songs, including a scaled-down remake of ʽOrpheo Looks Backʼ from the previous album; a semi-hilarious, semi-sad cover of the traditional country tune ʽRailroad Billʼ that might have been an outtake from Oh! The Grandeur for all I care; and an ominous feedback-meets-fiddle take on The Handsome Family's ʽWhen That Helicopter Comesʼ — these all constitute very pleasant, traditional, entertaining listening for those who dig roots-rock in ge­neral and/or Bird's personal take on it in particular. There is enough professionalism, intelligence, tact, and modest catchiness to even warrant the usual thumbs up. It just happens to be a some­what disinterested thumbs up.

(Besides, it seems that, try as he might, Andrew just won't be able to get the guitar out of business as pop music's leading instrument — somehow, it seems easier to keep on writing interesting guitar-based pop songs than violin-based ones. Maybe the problem is in that these songs aren't really based on the violin — it's fairly hard to get it to serve as a stable rhythmic foundation for this kind of music — and end up being just a collection of delicate lead lines hanging out of nowhere and fading back into nowhere, which doesn't exactly work well for the memorability department. But never mind, just a spontaneous speculation on my part here, really).

Check "Hands Of Glory" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Hands Of Glory" (MP3) on Amazon

Andrew Bird: Break It Yourself

ANDREW BIRD: BREAK IT YOURSELF (2012)

1) Desperation Breeds...; 2) Polynation; 3) Danse Caribe; 4) Give It Away; 5) Eyeoneye; 6) Lazy Projector; 7) Near Death Experience Experience; 8) Behind The Barn; 9) Lusitania; 10) Orpheo Looks Back; 11) Sifters; 12) Fatal Shore; 13) Hole In The Ocean Floor; 14) Belles.

Well... this is another Andrew Bird album, make no mistake about it. In fact, it is so much an Andrew Bird album that I caught myself with a déjà vu feeling on just about every song, even if none of the melodies can be identified as direct carbon copies of past material (I think). Strange enough, though, this looked like a problem on Noble Beast, but not here. It does confirm my con­clusions, stated for that previous album: Andrew Bird is no longer interested in searching, having found exactly what he was loo­king for. But, on the other hand, any formula, no matter for how long you have been sticking to it, may always be perfected. And my own intuition, for reasons I am still trying to understand, whispers that Break It Yourself is a minor rebound upwards from the minor «sagging» of Noble Beast.

The album is padded. It runs for sixty minutes, and a significant chunk of them are donated to sheer atmospherics. To be honest, I think that ʽFatal Shoreʼ works rather well as a natural conclu­sion to the album, and that the lazy eight minutes of «chamber ambience» that constitute ʽHole In The Ocean Floorʼ, as well as the even more minimalistic chimes-and-crickets outro of ʽBellesʼ, are a useless waste of everything that can be wasted. Nor is the «bulk» of the album free from moments when Bird's subtle tension slips into subtle languidness — inavoidable, perhaps, when you place quiet introspective melancholia and soft, inobtrusive acoustic guitar and violin patterns at the heart of your sound.

But overall, Break It Yourself still does it right by focusing most heavily on Bird's vocals — the atmosphere is closer to «minimalistic» than it was on Noble Beast; the instrumental melodies are fairly simple and predictable; and the hooks are generally tighter, darker, and hit closer to the heart. The word «desperation» is already locked in the title of the first song; and while Bird is never «desperate» in the generic sense of the word, I wouldn't be surprised to ever find out that he was intentionally planning here to deliver the saddest album in his career. More than half of the songs are dirges — semi-obscure laments with lyrics so convolu­ted that they could be relatable to lost love or the downfall of society with equal success. More importantly, more than half of the dirges click like a good dirge is supposed to.

It is hard to pick out individual examples, but ʽLusitaniaʼ is one of the more immediate heart-tug­gers, a duet with singer-songwriter St. Vincent, a.k.a. Annie Clark, for which Andrew has saved up his best crooning intonations and a simple, but true conclusion — "we don't study this war no more", with both singers joining in on "go ahead, say something dumb boy, there's no shame". Not everyone will want to interpret Break It Yourself as a cry for humanity, but ʽLusitaniaʼ is one of the more explicit numbers, and these moments of explicitness color the whole record.

Come to think of it, while few of the songs reach the levels of complexity that Bird occasionally used to demonstrate, and practically none of them show you something you have not already seen before, they all manage to get by just on the strength of certain isolated lines or phrases. ʽLazy Projectorʼ moves slow and shuffly, and is really all about the subtly condescending "tell me how long till the paint starts to peel". ʽDanse Carribeʼ is all about "here we go mistaking clouds for mountains". ʽEyeoneyeʼ is all about how "no one can break your heart, so you break it yourself". ʽNear Death Experience Experienceʼ is totally about how "we'll dance like cancer survivors, like we're grateful simply to be alive". And so on. Through sheer groping around, he finds all these little bits and turns them into steady bolts that fasten the whole construction.

This, in turn, gives the whole album a certain epic, ultra-serious feel; Break It Yourself is neither lightweight/carnivalesque, nor surrealistic/psychedelic, as most of Bird's earlier albums are. Once you decipher the man's lyrics using whatever personal key you may find on your own, the album may not turn out to be telling us lots of things that we do not already know. But I do get the feel­ing that, having already established himself as an unsurpassed master of a certain musical form, Bird is now finally trying to inject that form with substance, or, at least, a little bit of philosophi­cal realism that goes along very nicely with his particular brand of music.

For those who will get their first taste of Bird with Break It Yourself, the record may well be a revelation. For those who have already thoroughly explored his career and found it worthy with­out developing a fanatical attitude, it may require a few additional listens — by the end of which you will probably get the feeling that these days, Andrew Bird is treating himself with an extra dose of self-admiration compared to the way it used to be. Which isn't necessarily a bad thing: to me, it made Break It Yourself a more interesting and challenging experience than Noble Beast, with a guaranteed thumbs up. On the other hand, this may also breed trouble for the future. We'll just have to wait and see.

Check "Break It Yourself" (CD) on Amazon
Check "Break It Yourself" (MP3) on Amazon

Andrew Bird: Noble Beast

ANDREW BIRD: NOBLE BEAST (2008)

1) Oh No; 2) Masterswarm; 3) Fitz & Dizzyspells; 4) Effigy; 5) Tenuousness; 6) Nomenclature; 7) Ouo; 8) Not A Robot, But A Ghost; 9) Unfolding Fans; 10) Anonanimal; 11) Natural Disaster; 12) The Privateers; 13) Souverian; 14) On Ho!

Scary — but the well seems to be running dry. From the beginning, Bird has chosen the hono­rable, but risky path of trying to say something new with each album: staying true to his own un­flinching personality, yes, but still travelling the long exciting road from «neo-swing» to neo-wha­tever, adding influence upon influence and new trick upon new trick. With Armchair Apo­crypha, he'd molded his sound closer to indie-rock aesthetics, ensuring himself a steady com­mercial base among those who like their pop as pop, not as atonal brain-teasers, but still won't come within a mile's radius of MTV presence. It worked. What next?

Noble Beast is the first Andrew Bird album where I am exceedingly hard pressed to find even a remote trace of progress. (Apart from a couple lame moves, like the electronica elements and te­chno beats on 'Not A Robot' which do not agree with his style at all, I'm afraid). It's just another chunk of guitar-and-violin-driven pop, tied to another chunk of enigmatic, occasionally nerdy ly­rics (he even makes a reference to «proto-Sanskrit Minoans» at one point, which may delight the initiated, but should probably turn off history and linguistics buffs who actually know the meaning of these words). It's all pleasant, and a few of the songs are emotionally wondralicious — but totally surpri­sing in its total lack of surprises.

But if, for one moment, we admit that our expectations are skewed — that, perhaps, Andrew has simply found the kind of sound that gives him complete sexual self-satisfaction — then what re­mains is simply to listen to the album over and over again until it clicks like the rest. Then, even­tually, 'Oh No' wins over as one of his delightfullest, most aethereal odes to spiritual liberation (provided this is how we have to interpret the lament about "calcium mines deep in our chest"), with one of his friendliest whistling patterns to boot. 'Fitz & Dizzyspells' is uplifting power pop that ranks up there with 'Heretics' (and also continues to display what I perceive as his serious in­terest in the Arcade Fire anthem style). And the start of 'The Privateers' is his most polished alloy of medie­val balladry and post-modern sheen to date, upon which it builds up layer after layer of grandiosity and then finally explodes in a bunch of electronic noise shambles.

For those who like their Andrew all sky-like and pastoral, 'Souverian' will do the job nicely. No one knows who 'Souverian' is; Bird himself was caught mentioning something about this being a French word, but, unless he happened to fall upon a mistyped variant of souverain, or decided by himself that the word would look nicer if disguised as an Armenian family name, he probably did not know what he was talking about (no big surprise here). Regardless, it forms a nice near homo­phone with 'so very young', and that's all it took to build up a genteel, manneristic mini-suite that does a great job extracting you from the world of Miley Cyrus for about seven minutes.

But keep in mind that if, like me, you get acquainted with Bird in chronological order, you'd bet­ter be prepared for a tinge of boredom and tiredness. His obvious professionalism and mannered intelligence prevent, and, I think, will always prevent him from releasing a non-respectable re­cord, yet there is only so much hyper-intellectual parallel-universe-building that one's mind will accept from the mind of another. And for Bird, it looks like his particular parallel universe has reached the end of its carefully planned construction — now all that remains is to understand how to spend the rest of the allocated budget. Repave the roads, perhaps?

Andrew Bird: Soldier On

ANDREW BIRD: SOLDIER ON (2007)

1) The Trees Were Mistaken; 2) Sic Of Elephants; 3) The Water Jet Cilice; 4) Plasticities; 5) Heretics; 6) Sectionate City; 7) How You Gonna Keep 'Em Down On The Farm; 8) Oh Sister.

A mid-size, near-LP-length EP that Bird put out because... because all respectable artists are sup­posed to release an EP every once in a while? Let us think logically. This EP features: (a) one remix of a previously released tune ('Plasticities'); (b) a demo version of a previously released tune ('Heretics'); (c) a Bob Dylan cover (guess which); (d) a short psycho-Eastern instrumental ('Sectionate City'); (e) a lightly fleshed-out vocal version of an earlier instrumental ('The Water Jet Cilice'); (f) a song that had already been released as a bonus track on the iTunes edition of Arm­chair Apocrypha ('Sic Of Elephants'); (g) a regularly melancholic reading of the old after­war tune 'How You Gonna Keep 'Em Down' from 1918; (h) exactly one fully-fledged, seriously developed new song (the first one).

Ergo, this probably means that he had this song about mistaken trees either as a leftover from the Apocrypha sessions or recorded afresh, and then hastily assembled some local trash around it to justify immediate release. It is to Andrew's honor, of course, that he can hastily assemble thirty minutes worth of outtakes and throwaways that still provide a nice listen.

'The Trees Are Mistaken' are a magnificent creation, to be sure. The drum loops are somewhat generic, but the violin loops are anything but, and, taken together with the whistling, create a uniquely Birdian au­ra of gentlemanly paranoia. Possible interpretations rank in the millions, espe­cially when concentrating on the lyrics, but the basic impression from the song's primary gim­mick — those nagging, droning violins slowly sawing through your brain — will be the same for most people, I think, provided they can stand a little brain-sawing.

'Sic Of Elephants', on the other hand, lacks a distinct hook, unless the worldplay between 'ele­phants' and 'sycophants' can be considered as such. Along with 'Cilice', its strength is in mood and atmosphere, so that it is all the more pleasing that the alternate versions for earlier songs are cho­sen from two of the catchiest tunes on Apocrypha — 'Heretics', in particular, works almost as well in its stripped-down form as it does with the strings-induced bombast.

Still, obviously, this is one more for the fans; the average Joe on the street will not gain an extra pass to Heaven by listening to Andrew Bird covering one of the more morally ambiguous songs of Bob Dylan's career ('Oh Sister' is a Biblical stylization about incest, if you have not noticed; granted, what with Andrew's sweet, sweet arrangement and singing, it would be hard for his sister to refuse his yearnings, I think).

Andrew Bird: Armchair Apocrypha

ANDREW BIRD: ARMCHAIR APOCRYPHA (2007)

1) Fiery Crash; 2) Imitosis; 3) Heretics; 4) Dark Matter; 5) Plasticities; 6) Armchairs; 7) Simple X; 8) The Supine; 9) Cataracts; 10) Scythian Empire; 11) Spare-Ohs; 12) Yawny At The Apocalypse.

The title has a very nice ring to it, and it is well certified that both the title and the album itself stem from Bird's fervent passion for armchairs. How could such a passion remain undetected when there is a budgerigar on the album cover? If you do not immediately spot the connection between common pet parakeets and armchairs, you are unlikely to be eligible for the fan club.

But it does not take a true fan to understand that Apocrypha continues the trend: Bird is making himself look bigger. The record is louder and jumpier, and the first noticeable thing about it is how much more guitar- (particularly, electric guitar-)based most of the songs are; on this record, the violin is degraded from the status of ruthless monopolist to that of a valued, but contractually restricted partner. One explanation is the everlasting quest for new sounds and sensations; the other is that record buyers generally fall for guitar-based music easier than they do for violin-ba­sed one, what with the people still rolling over Beethoven and telling Tchaikowsky the news after all these years, and, true enough, the record became Andrew's biggest seller to that point (mea­ning that it actually sold something).

Grim facts, however, indicate that the changes are but superficial. Quite symbolic of everything that this album is is 'Imitosis', essentially a rewrite of 'I' from Weather Systems, with the same main hook of "we're basically alone", but with the addition of booming electronic drums, guitars, chimes, background vocals, and cosmic sound effects. Oh, and a surrealistic video to boot. But as imaginative as the rearranging is, does it truly add up to the original feeling of the song? Not the way I see it, at least.

I judge, therefore, that if you do not think an artist like Bird deserving of spending your patience upon his earlier, less accessible, records, Armchair Apocrypha is a good introduction to what he is, always was, and, most likely, forever will be. Long-time fans, however, may be disappointed if they were expecting some sort of spiritual growth or development. On the other hand, long-time fans who think of Bird as a nice lad with a good ear for melody rather than the 21st century Buddha of pop music will find plenty to dig.

Because, for instance, 'Heretics' is just a great optimistic pop song with a luvverly strings arrange­ment; when the chorus goes "No, we don't want to hear the sound of a draw", then, provided you are a human being with the capacity of crying rather than a walking brick wall, I predict that, af­ter one or two listens at most, you will be perfectly willing to agree that you really don't want to hear the sound of a draw, regardless of what that sound might sound like. (I'm pretty sure some people will say it's an anti-Bush song, but I do not even want to conduct any research on that). So is 'Plasticities', a cheerful song about fighting for music halls and dying cities driven by a sort of simplistic retro-style Brit-pop guitar riff in the chorus, and 'Dark Matter', which is nowhere near as dark as the actual matter, and...

...well, now that I think of it, the attitude has shifted: more drums and guitars mean less brooding melancholia, which, along with the violin, is now confined to select entities ('Armchairs'; 'Scy­thian Empire', probably the only song in existence to unite Scythians, Achaens, Thracians, and Haliburton under one roof; the short instrumental 'Supine', of obvious superficial appeal to lin­guists but, unfortunately, devoid of lyrics, so we never get to know just how well Andrew has studied his Latin grammar).

So it's up to everyone to decide what is more precious for history — a cloudy, gloomy Andrew Bird, or a loudy, boomy Andrew Bird. My own verdict is, of course, a thumbs up, but mixed in with a little disappointment. It's wonderful to know the man can find a major enough popular ap­peal to combine artistic integrity with financial stability, but a little sad to know that he has, most likely, reached the summit of his artistic mountain and that there's nowhere to go from here but in the direction of gravity's pull. Fortunately for us all, he's such a light fellow that gravity does not affect him all that much.

Andrew Bird: Fingerlings 3

ANDREW BIRD: FINGERLINGS 3 (2006)

1) Grinnin'; 2) Dark Matter; 3) The Water Jet Cilice; 4) Measuring Cups; 5) The Happy Birthday Song; 6) A Nervous Tic Motion Of The Head To The Left; 7) Scythian Empire; 8) Dear Dirty; 9) Tin Foil; 10) Ethiobirds.

The third and, so far, last volume of Fingerlings hardly deserves a lot of words. It is slightly lon­ger than the other two, mainly at the expense of featuring a couple extra non-live (or «live in the studio») tracks that sort of spoil the principle, but you'd never guess it without additional research anyway. Chief among these is the ten-minute suite 'Ethiobirds', an unusually ambitious piece that I could only describe as «elevator muzak for paradise», with Bird's regular synthesis of folk rhy­thmics, Eastern melodies, and classical sonics stretched out to cover all the time it requires to make that elevator trip from Earth to Heaven, with the rhythm gradually fading out to make way for cloudy cloudy cloudy.

Casual Bird fans will want 3 primarily for that particular piece; without it, it is essentially more of the same — slightly altered twists on older songs ('Nervous Tic Motion', for instance, is springier and livelier in the live setting and showcases his seriously underrated whistling talents far more effectively) interspersed with «previews» of newer songs from the upcoming Armchair Apo­crypha ('Dark Matter', 'Scythian Empire'). 'Dear Dirty' is also an original that, as far as I know, has not yet showed up on any other record — a gloomy piece with blues overtones, unusual for its thumbful of bitter bile that Andrew, normally such a nice fella who prefers to mourn over bad things in life rather than to hate them, empties into the mix. 'Tin Foil' is yet another Happy Fami­ly cover that is a nice addition to anyone's collection of Happy Family covers. What else is there to say? Nothing. Maybe Andrew thinks so, too, seeing as how the series has been essentially dis­continued since 2006.

Andrew Bird: The Mysterious Production Of Eggs

ANDREW BIRD: ANDREW BIRD & THE MYSTERIOUS PRODUCTION OF EGGS (2005)

1) √; 2) Sovay; 3) A Nervous Tic Motion Of The Head To The Left; 4) Fake Palindromes; 5) Measuring Cups; 6) Banking On A Myth; 7) Masterfade; 8) Opposite Day; 9) Skin Is, My; 10) The Naming Of Things; 11) MX Missiles; 12) ~; 13) Tables And Chairs; 14) The Happy Birthday Song.

I freely admit that an album that is called Mysterious Production Of Eggs, sports a picture of a green-tinged zombie goat (sheep?) on the sleeve, and borrows the sign of a square root for the title of its first composition, is a little hard to take seriously. But do we really know all the in­tri­cacies of the mechanism of egg production? Do we understand all the peculiarities of the co­louring of domestic bovids? Have we thoroughly explored all of the properties of the square root function? And if not, what right have we to ridicule Andrew Bird's symbolism, which may just as much be the result of a stunning spiritual revelation as it may be a load of baloney?

Regardless — my working hypothesis is that all of this is a load of baloney. The percentage rate of wheat to chaff in Andrew's lyrics this time hovers around 1:9, according to my intuition, and the words matter only inasmuch as they have an intonation attached. Intonations include a lot of questions and just as many plaintive notes, once again confirming Bird's «nerdy whiner» status; but now he has pushed his brand of dream-pop even further, expanding the number of used inst­ruments (in particular, there is much more acoustic and electric guitar playing on here than ever before) and making the background arrangements ever more complex, and this creates a very strange final impression. If Weather Systems was his high-up-in-the-clouds cozy little ivory to­wer, one in which he could lock himself with his small dedicated audience and shun the corrosion of the rest of the world, then on Production Of Eggs he seems intent on somewhat augmenting the property. Still behind barbed wire, but the stakes have moved: now he is not so much defen­ding his claim to intellectual paranoia as he is propagating it.

In other words, Production Of Eggs is still «dreamy», but it isn't nearly as «chamber»-like as its predecessor. 'Fake Palindromes', for instance, is a huge-soundin' mother, with a sweeping power-pop violin assault that we have not heard since Swimming Hour; 'Skin Is, My' is a fully vocali­zed re-recording of 'Skin' with a much denser sound that almost approaches pop-punk on the "what a lovely sound" chorus; and 'The Naming Of Things' is a stately anthem on which the man throws in a pinch of Old Testament fervor (not that anyone would ever get the message — pre­suming one existed in the first place).

All three of these songs will appeal immensely, I am sure, to the average pop fan who likes his music loud and crunchy. But the true soul of the record probably still lies in tracks like 'Sovay' and 'Masterfade', gentile, vulnerable ballads that are as much soaked in the Elizabethan spirit as they are genuine creations of the XXIst century. Their sweet, melodic, melancholic vibe is com­pletely at odds with lyrics like "Then you realize that you're riding on a para-success of a heavy­handed metaphor" (much as the latter is true for Mr. Bird), but only if you make the mistake of trying to decipher them in some sort of literal way.

Or maybe the album's true soul lies in 'Opposite Day', a song that moves from Beach Boys-like choral harmonies to Beatles-like psychedelia to Nick Drake-like hush-folk in several crudely joi­ned movements — and deals with the issue of turning into a cephalopod as "laws of physics lose their sway" and "those who can't quite function in society at large got to wake up on this morning to find that they're in charge". Because over the course of these fifty-plus minutes, it is indeed Andrew Bird who is in charge over your senses, and is there any doubt about his own ability to "function in society at large"? Like I said — the man is trying to expand his corner of the market, quite deliberately so.

And, actually, he succeeded: it was Production Of Eggs that, after almost a decade of shadowy existence, put him on some more widely distributed musical maps. The album got positive res­ponses from sources as distant from each other as Pitchforkmedia and Robert Christgau, and pre­t­ty much ensured that the next album would even make a Billboard presence. The fact that he achieved this without sacrificing a single shred of artistic credibility — only a total musical idiot would dare brand Eggs a «sellout» — is a small sign of hope.

Interesting trivia bit: Production Of Eggs was released on Ani DiFranco's Righteous Babe label, which puts to rest the formerly rhetoric-idiotic question of «What does an introvert violin hack­man from Chicago and the head banner of East Coast feminism have in common?» (Other than this, of course). Thumbs up as usual, although beware: if Weather Systems puts you to sleep (in a bad way), Production Of Eggs is not at all guaranteed to wake you up (in a good way).

Andrew Bird: Fingerlings 2

ANDREW BIRD: FINGERLINGS 2 (2004)

1) First Song; 2) Skin Is, My; 3) Master Fade; 4) Banking On A Myth; 5) MX Missiles; 6) Spanish For Monsters; 7) Sovay; 8) Way Out West; 9) Depression Pasillo; 10) Happy Day.

Having decided to make the Fingerlings project recurrent, Bird did not exactly give it his all to make the second volume as self-contained as one could perceive the first one. More properly, it's like one of those middle-of-the-road movie sequels which are still ruled by the original creator, but only by a chunk of his heart rather than the full load. «The original was great, let's do another one, not for the money, really, it just sucks to let this idea wither without exploring it down to its roots and seeing how far we can go with it».

Well, first of all, the album is almost completely redundant. Five out of ten songs are essentially preview versions of tracks on next year's Production Of Eggs, and, as excellent a live performer as Bird is, his reliance on synchronic loop-recording techniques chains him to the machine much the same way Pink Floyd used to be chained to their stage arrangements, meaning that there will be no great difference between live and studio playing aside from the understandably more sparse sound in the live setting. 'First Song' is from Weather Systems; 'Way Out West' and 'Depression Pasillo' hearken back to the Bowl of Fire days; and only two songs are unavailable elsewhere. Of these two, however, 'Spanish For Monsters' is a must-hear for all Bird fans, a bizarre hybridi­zation of gypsy music with traditional blues.

He does try to adhere to the same build-up principle, starting off solo, then adding Norah O'Con­nor on two tracks, then joined by My Morning Jacket on one more, then rummaging in the archi­ves to extract two more dusty Bowl Of Fire recordings, and then bringing it all back down with a soft, humble, friendly solo performance of a traditional folk tune. Somehow, though, the magic does not scintillate as brilliantly second time around — even though this is definitely not the material's fault. Maybe it's just a disgustingly sobering realization, somewhere in the back of the mind, that Fingerlings was, after all, a breakthrough in form and substance, but Fingerlings 2 ma­kes it into formula, and no sequel faithfully regenerating the original can be completely worth the original.

On a pure heart level, this is the usual beauty coming from the usual Bird; but all the other system registers clearly indicate that its primary purpose is to stop the gap in awaiting the next true manifestation of Mr. Bird. No year without a new LP! And who's to stop you if you're almost gua­ranteed additional positive reviews in any case?

Andrew Bird: Weather Systems

ANDREW BIRD: WEATHER SYSTEMS (2003)

1) First Song; 2) I; 3) Lull; 4) Action/Adventure; 5) →; 6) Skin; 7) Weather Systems; 8) Don't Be Scared; 9) ←.

This one is perhaps easier to understand, forgive, and take a liking to if one accepts Bird's expla­nation of it as a «side project» tossed off during the several years it took him to perfect his first «proper» solo album (The Mysterious Production Of Eggs). A short, monotonous, lazy, near-ambient slice of chamber-dream-pop, Weather Systems has nevertheless been hailed as a hidden masterpiece by quite a few critics — charmed either by witnessing the final stages of Bird's evo­lution from swinging folkster into raffinated baroque artist or by the channelling of the spirit of the late Jeff Buckley, always a good boost for those critics who get paid by the word.

In spirit and in technique, Weather Systems does not add much to the first half of Fingerlings, one of whose songs it even reproduces in a studio arrangement ('Action/Adventure'). Again, the basic message here is that of «intelligent melancholia» — Andrew Bird as the lonesome minstrel, watching the vanity of the world from his favorite cliff high up in the clouds and polishing his lyre (violin). It's all there on 'I', running along a simple plucked rhythm and a morose distorted bassline and a mantraic refrain that sets the tone for the whole record: "...hear a voice that says we're basically alone, says we're basically alone...". (The track would later become the rockier-ar­ranged 'Imitosis' and one of Bird's primary visit cards, but I must say that it is much more effec­tive in its stripped down state. Alone is alone, after all).

After a while, it gets louder and denser, acquiring a decidedly psychedelic flavour by the time of the last two or three tracks. 'Don't Be Scared', a cover of a little-known tune by a little-known alt-country outfit (The Handsome Family), has plenty of cloudy gorgeousness — in a way, you could think of it as the blueprint for most of the creations of Beach House. And the title track, although quite unmemorable by itself, does that on purpose, merging the ambient values of late XXth cen­tury with a good mixture of XVIIIth century chamber music.

It is funny, come to think of it, that I have used the word «baroque», probably tricked, in an im­pressionistic way, by too much violin — because the skeleton of the record still reflects Bird's fascination with folk, bluegrass, and various ethnic styles. For all I know, the beginning of 'First Song' could just as well be James Taylor. But, through the art of cloning that violin and hybridi­zing the clones in different ways, Bird comes a bit close to providing us with the answer to the rarely asked, but all the more intriguing question: «What would we get if we had the likes of Tar­tini or Paganini interested in learning and assimilating the British/American folk idiom?» Obvi­ously, a direct comparison would be ridiculous, since Bird is no virtuoso (each time he gets hailed as one by any of his professional admirers, it makes me wonder if they actually took the time to get acquainted with his classical influences), yet the basic idea is comprehensible, and nowhere is it expressed as fluidly as on that hard-to-nail title track.

I suppose that, once Bird's career has finally been laid to rest, this will be viewed as his equiva­lent of the Beach Boys' Friends: an emphatically hushed, introspective lull (hey, one of the tracks is named 'Lull!') in between bigger, louder, more «public» statements; and today already Wea­ther Systems is a serious candidate for the best A. B. album in the eyes of emphatically hushed, introspective listeners. Thumbs up — there is no significant criticism I can hurl at any of these songs. How could I, when I slept through most of them?

(Oops).

Andrew Bird: Fingerlings

ANDREW BIRD: FINGERLINGS (2002)

1) Action/Adventure; 2) Trimmed And Burning; 3) Gotholympians; 4) Richmond Woman; 5) Sweetbreads; 6) Why; 7) Headsoak; 8) How Indiscreet; 9) T'N'T.

Pretty much impossible to find these days — the original was limited to something like 250 co­pies — but, nevertheless, totally essential. Much of Bird's studio recording has a live feel to it all by itself, but to «get» this guy, it is necessary to experience him on stage, at least converted to au­dio (or video). It is there, as he is standing half-plucking, half-bowing his violin, that it is the ea­siest to convince yourself he really does have the required «mystery component» and cannot be simply written off as just another readily trashable post-modern clown.

Fingerlings have been assembled from various performances, but structured in a very coherent manner, reminiscent of the original sequencing of Talking Heads' Stop Making Sense: the prota­gonist is alone at first, then slowly joined, one by one, by the trusty backup. And this gives an ex­tra reason for comparing Bird with Byrne (beyond the obvious graphic and phonetic similarities in their names, that is) — both artists have been guilty of cultivating a unique mix of craziness and intelli­gence so as to make an impression, and both make it hard for the average listener to dis­cern the average human soul beyond the formalistic trappings; hard, but possible, and richly rewarding in the long run.

Bird's solo sound is quite unique. The simultaneous plucking and bowing gives him a great angle — the plucked violin acquires a mandolin-like sound, and this takes care of both rhythm and me­lody. But his real trademark is the use of a special gadget, based on the loop pedal principle, that actually records parts of what he is playing and then plays it back while he is going on to the next part, having just cre­ated a temporary «phonogram» for the next several bars. Cynics will deride this as a crude fi­nancial solution (no need to pay the rhythm player), but admirers will point out the tremendous technical difficulty it takes to measure out something like that in live performance — we know of plenty users of the loop pedal, but this is a very demanding extreme.

It could also be qualified as a silly show-off, but with Bird, it works; it might, in fact, be just what is needed, as, over and over again, he wraps himself in his own freshly-generated sounds like a protective cocoon. The first three songs on Fingerlings are strictly solo, solemn and sorrowful, and the traditional 'Keep Your Lamps Trimmed And Burning' perfectly fits in with two of his own compositions. But it is not any kind of sorrowfulness you are easily familiar with; it is a very quiet, introspective kind, a chamber piece for the initiated few, perhaps bringing to mind the old melancholy of Nick Drake, except Bird's blood quietly boils where Nick's used to quietly freeze, if you'll pardon the clumsy metaphor.

Things slowly start picking up and shedding some of the moroseness once Bird is joined by Nora O'Connor on guitar and backing vocals for the next three numbers, including a completely re­interpreted 'Why' from The Swimming Hour. These bring on a more traditional folksy attitude (although, lyrics-wise, the extremely bizarre 'Sweetbreads' is anything but traditi­onal); and then, finally, the entire Bowl Of Fire comes forward, first in a stately and graceful ma­n­ner on a stripped-down version of 'Headsoak', then totally letting their hair down and having a rowdy ball on the last two numbers.

And then, as you cast a retro-eye on what you have just heard, it turns out you have been taken on one man's journey through three (if not more) different stages. There's the being alone part, the­re's the being together part, and then there's the big company part. Three modes of existence, three ways of conduct, three emotional stages — solitary sadness, thoughtful dialog, and reckless partying, each one equally engaging and convincing. Throw in the idiosyncratic playing te­ch­nique, the note-perfect singing, and the general strength of the selections, and the 250 copies will look like a fuckin' joke. A billion thumbs up if that is what it takes to bring this back in print.

Andrew Bird: The Swimming Hour

ANDREW BIRD'S BOWL OF FIRE: THE SWIMMING HOUR (2001)

1) Two Way Action; 2) Core And Rind; 3) Why?; 4) 11:11; 5) Case In Point; 6) Too Long; 7) Way Out West; 8) Waiting To Talk; 9) Fatal Flower Garden; 10) Satisfied; 11) Headsoak; 12) How Indiscreet; 13) Dear Old Greenland.

The best Bowl of Fire album ever — or, perhaps, simply the most accessible? Well, if diversity and unpredictability count as sins, probably the latter. But, regardless, this review will be written from the point of view of an incorrigible sinner. Besides, it's not like we are talking teen pop or anything like that. This is a guy who could stand his own with Yo-Yo Ma.

The Swimming Hour takes us ever further away from the limitations of «neo-swing», as they like to call it, and into new old realms like power pop, psychedelia, blues rock, and rumba, among others. It has already been likened to The White Album and similar genre-hopping en­cy­clo­pae­dic al­bums, and for good reason, even though, occasionally, Andrew seems to plod through these gen­res rather than hop through them. Perhaps this explains the title — to swim, after all, takes more effort than to fly for those who can do both.

Some complain that Bird is hard to understand, and the points he makes are hard to get. Well, ob­viously, because he does not really make any points. He goes for moods and melodies, and he sets them to the kind of lyrics that are in no danger of spoiling said moods and melodies: rooted in the old pop-poetry clichés, either twisted to the point of intelligent-looking absurdity or adjusted to reflect a well-acted theatrical situation that does not cut through to the heart, but is still exciting, all the same. The lyrics are decent, but it's not like they really matter.

What does matter? Many things. Like when the crunchy violin riff emerges out of the sonic chaos of the first 40 seconds of 'Two Way Action', and we perceive it as a driving power pop anthem, well worthy of the Big Star legacy except that the strings are bowed rather than plucked. Or when the baroque flourishes on '11:11' bring together the twenty-first and the eighteenth centuries by way of the psychedelic Sixties. Or when the screeching guitar solo emerges out of nowhere on the quiet waltz of 'Fatal Flower Garden', giving it a nice rock flavor. Or when Bird starts whistling on 'Headsoak', giving us a first taste of his tremendous talents in that department. Or the wild rock'n'roll things he does with the violin on 'How Indiscreet', spiritually reminiscent of the British R'n'B rave-ups from around 1964.

In short, The Swimming Hour is simply a very melodic, and a very expertly constructed, piece of non-revolutionary modern art. Its intelligence is even reflected in the extremely correct manner in which Bird treats all the styles: thus, when it is power pop, a direction that nurtures originality in the juxtaposition of chords, he actually writes melodies of his own, but when it is the same old swing, we find the same old age-weathered progressions (as in, most notably, his cover of The Mi­ssissippi Sheiks' 'Too Long'), and this should bother us no more than it did on the man's previ­ous couple of records — you don't mess up with an already winning formula, you only polish it for the modern listener's hearing criteria.

One of the simplest and most effective examples is 'Why?', a thrilling chunk of «blues de luxe» that Bird arranges in the form of a non-trivial drama (he is a no-good fucker, she sees no problem in tolerating his no-goodness, he only gets more pissed-off as a result — not such a rare situation when you think of it, but, for some reason, generally neglected in the long tradition of refining personal rela­tions into high art). As the bluesy violin scrapes the soul with the efficacy of a trade­mark B. B. King solo, and the vocals effortlessly switch from exasperated falsetto to drunk, reckless wailing on the middle-eight, you know that the guy has created something — a character, a performance, a symbol, whatever, that you just might want to keep with you.

At this point in his career, Bird starts taking on the characteristics of an Adrian Belew for his ge­neration — that is, a properly schizoid guy, raised and reared as a tenant of the ivory tower but not above regularly holding a carnival for the local peasants right in front of the moat. No crucial importance for either the current times or the times to come, no clear reason for this kind of acti­vity, no possibility of understanding why we are all gathered here on this day, but the sensation of a significant positive charge is undeniable all the same. It's not post-modern smirk, and it isn't faithful generic tribute. It's groping in the dark with two loving hands, never mind any potentially salacious connotations.

I guess that's pretty much the same kind of feeling about which he sings in 'Dear Old Greenland'. There is no reason whatsoever for the protagonist to go to Greenland, but something out there makes him quite certain that this is just the right place to find the necessary peace of mind. Well, I could never quite get my own motiva­tion for being so strongly drawn to The Swimming Hour, but I can definitely confirm that this particular hour of swimming contributed to my own peace of mind. Let science deal with this some other day. The heart acknowledges the presence of a strong magnetic field here, and concedes a thumbs up.

Andrew Bird: Oh! The Grandeur

ANDREW BIRD'S BOWL OF FIRE: OH! THE GRANDEUR (1999)

1) Candy Shop; 2) Tea And Thorazine; 3) Wishing For Contentment; 4) Wait; 5) The Idiot's Genius; 6) Vidalia; 7) Beware; 8) Dora Goes To Town; 9) Feetlips; 10) And So...; 11) Coney Island Shuffle; 12) Respiration; 13) (What's Your) Angle; 14) The Confession; 15) Beware (reprise).

All right; this sounds almost exactly like Thrills, but it no longer sounds like homework. There was a little bit of Andrew Bird already present on Music Of Hair, but it is his third LP where the Andrew Bird part becomes seriously comparable in size to the «Andrew Bird influences» part. Most of this has to do with the lyrics, ever more entangled, personal, and mixing hip modern ways of thinking about life with traditional ways of expressing these thoughts. At least, such is my tentative explanation of why Oh! The Grandeur is the first FUN Andrew Bird album. Or, as Andrew admits himself, "I've got a new-found fangled fandango tango angle — and it keeps things curious, and it makes folks furious; it takes two part tango and a little tingle tangle, and two orangutans like me and you" ('What's Your Angle').

Bird's biggest achievement here, perhaps, is that he has managed to make that old time music feel relevant once again, and maybe even disclose some potential depth that we rarely, or never, per­ceive when listening to Kurt Weill or Fats Waller, not because they were not «deep», but because, in creating all these new sounds, they never bothered to explore them right down to the core. By adding new levels of technical precision, combining rarely combined instruments, juxtaposing rarely juxtaposed sub-styles, and filling them up with present-day realities, the guy gives the old carnival thing a second breath — and does this with more subtlety and personality than the Squir­rel Nut Zippers themselves, who also tried to revive the form but did not truly succeed in filling it up with the proper spirit.

On 'Candy Shop', which opens the record on a fast, brawny, danceable note, Bird promi­ses that he is "goin' to set fire to your glamour", but the song is a cunning deception: it merely sounds like a fast outtake from Thrills, another bit of well-polished tribute but with little chance of being sele­cted for preservation in the National Archives. But then 'Tea And Thorazine' takes off at a much slower, in some ways, even creepier pace as Bird sings memoirs of his autistic brother, and from then on, it is a strange journey into the world of gypsy fiddles and jump-blues guitars and voodoo percussion that, at times, evokes images of an early morning dreamy hangover after a long night at the local speakeasy.

The record's centerpiece is, I believe, to be faithfully found right in the center: 'Beware', moving from its regular violin intro to the lazy shuffle mood and then, without warning, into the sphere of drunken ominousness: with huge vocal, violin, and piano crescendos, Bird gives us a warning against... uh, I actually have no idea what he is talking about, but I do like the idea of using that old-fashioned cabaret sound to sing about some sort of impending apocalypse. In fact, all through the record there is a vague sense of danger at the end of town, but what kind of danger — that is not so interesting for Andrew to specify.

Of course, I may be reading too much into an album that, even with all the darker themes, keeps debasing itself with cheerful lightweight SquirrelNuttish throwaways like 'Dora Goes To Town', but bear with me: Andrew Bird is too smart a guy to be restricted by the tag of «lightweight enter­tainer», and there is no other way to let him escape this restriction than to keep talking about his non-trivial artistic conceptions. And, above all, you cannot accuse him of insincerity or inadequa­cy: if his goal truly is to «keep things curious» and «make folks furious», these are two things that Oh! The Grandeur does splendidly. At the very least, it made my brain cells furious enough and my heart strings curious enough to guarantee this the first truly solid thumbs up in Andrew Bird history.

Andrew Bird: Thrills

ANDREW BIRD'S BOWL OF FIRE: THRILLS (1998)

1) Minor Stab; 2) Ides Of Swing; 3) Glass Figurine; 4) Pathetique; 5) Depression/Passillo; 6) 50 Pieces; 7) A Wo­man's Life And Love; 8) Swedish Wedding March; 9) Eugene; 10) Gris-Gris; 11) Cock O' The Walk; 12) Nuthin­duan Waltz; 13) Some Of These Days/Chinatown, My Chinatown.

«Andrew Bird's Bowl Of Fire» is hardly the best name for a band recording this kind of music. «Bowl of Fire» suggests «Ball Of Fire», and «Ball Of Fire» suggests either Deep Purple, or that corny, but funny movie of Billy Wilder's where Gene Krupa and Barbara Stanwyck collectively explode over a version of 'Drum Boogie'. If there is a fire somewhere on Thrills, Bird's first seri­ous contribution to the outside world, it is a highly metaphorical one.

Surrounding himself with fellow Chicago musicians, as well as guests from the Squirrel Nut Zip­pers, Bird pays his personal homage to pre-war popular music. Delta blues, small combo jazz, a little swing, a little Charleston, and lots of Kurt Weill. If you are too young to care about them old times, think Tom Waits without all the experimentation and with a sweet croon instead of the toilet rasp. Beyond that, some older folk influences are carried over from Music Of Hair: there are two and a half minutes of a 'Swedish Wedding March' (apparently, the Swedes make little distinction between a wedding and a funeral), and a new, fuller, and slightly less grating version of 'Nuthinduan Waltz' from the previous album.

The listing says «all songs written and composed by Andrew Bird», with but a couple exceptions; this is obviously untrue, since on most of them, the only true original writing concerns the lyrics — Bird's end-of-the-century verbal updating of the beginning-of-the-century subjects is astute and funny: even Brecht would have had trouble coming up with stuff like 'Studies have shown that we, like sheep, are prone to sure fatal doses of malcontent through osmosis; but don't be sympathetic, just pass the anaesthetic, 'cuz sheep are benign and on the young we will dine' ('Eu­gene'). The melodies, on the contrary, are fully in the traditional vein, and this means, in mild terms, «appropriated» — 'Cock O' The Walk', for instance, is no more composed by Andrew Bird than 'Amazing Grace' (for some nice competition on that melody, how about checking out Robert Johnson's 'They're Red Hot'?). I have no idea why the tune is credited to Bird when, at the same time, 'Some Of These Days' is credited to Charley Patton (not that Charley Patton actually wrote 'Some Of These Days', either, but I suppose that Andrew just wanted to namedrop the man, which is a cool gesture. If you happen to be the lucky winner who has learned about Charley Patton through Andrew Bird's Bowl Of Fire, contact me and we'll make history together).

There is not much to tell about individual tunes: a tribute is a tribute, a stylization a stylization, and all of this has a solid post-modern flair that justifies the album's existence in the first place. Bird and his musicians love their influences, they have a real good time doing what they are do­ing, and yet, Thrills is still not really as thrilling as Andrew's further evolution; at this time, he has made the transition from homebrewn experimentator and self-teacher to a likeable and intel­ligent entertainer, but he is still doing his homework. Thumbs up for the homework, and I will reserve more writing space for things to come.