It is very dark. People are whispering. On stage, there is a bright, red rug in the shape of a rectangle. On one side sits a medium-sized, marigold gramophone. Sitting at its base is a dilapidated toy monkey, its head cocked to one side. On the other side, there is a violin case, two guitars on their stands, and a small glockenspiel set up. By the front of the rug lays a series of complicated-looking foot pedals and wires. The lights behind the stage begin to glow different colors and suddenly, it seemed as though everyone held their breath. Quickly and quietly, Andrew Bird walks out from the right side of the stage wearing his usual forest green vest, and crinkly brown shoes. A classically trained violinist, former swing jazz musician, his music is an eclectic, passionate mix of gypsy ballads, jazz, folk and rock.
He says hello, picks up his violin, and starts in an instant. The bow runs along the strings—the sound is mere perfection, like the intertwined symmetry of sea and sky. The vibrations of the strings are quick and the sound comes in waves, the audience is softened like the skin of all fruits and suddenly, we’re all in love with the way his neck is bent along the body of his small, wooden instrument.
He will play a simple melody, its tempo ranging from fast to slow, the timbre of the violin like the fullness of a newly-bloomed spring forest, like the smell of pine, the sound of running water—that is how his instrument sounds. And this simple rhythm becomes looped by his foot pedals. Suddenly, he’s playing yet another rhythm, something entirely different, maybe even whistling the notes of a familiar song. And again, this new rhythm embedded in melody is looped, entwining with the first rhythm. He does this multiple times, using the glockenspiel, using the guitar, banging on the wood, plucking the strings of his violin; staccato, legato, a crescendo! There are the whirling, exposed double-horned Leslie speakers, all of it together is epic, yet intimate.
His music is musical epiphany, it is communication in most primal, human form—of sounds and colors and tastes even. The lyrics he plays with are fantastical and strange and thought-provoking: “Bird’s lyrics often feature archaic language — words such as radiolarian, plecostomus, dermestids, coprophagia — which he chooses mainly for their sound,” Bird says in an interview, “I don’t write poetry and then strum some chords and then fit the words on top of the chords. I start with a very distinct melody, so my options… If one thing is fixed and then the words then have to then conform to the fixed melodies, then it’s like cracking codes. It’s like trying to go through a number of options of things that [will] just be exactly the right word” (NPR, All Things Considered).
His voice is strong and deep and smooth like a viola, it reaches and yearns like an outstretched arm to the audience. I believe that only after imperfection that one can realize its perfection. The sound is raw, he plays with timing and relies on his technology. Sometimes it fails, and he starts over again. The imperfection I talk about does not relate to literal “problems.” It’s the fact that the songs I have heard on his albums are nothing compared to when he plays those songs. He transforms each song to how he feels at the time. Sometimes he’ll hum or whistle a part of a song that he usually plays guitar on. Sometimes he’ll pluck his violin instead of singing. Or he’ll change the rhythm of the song, play on the upbeats, add rests, make some parts louder, and some parts softer. The imperfection here is that it is whimsical in nature, perfect in his eyes, and its translation to the audience and myself is completely mystifying and literally awe inspiring. He plays as a one-man show, he depends only on himself and his instruments. He truly is a magnificent, beautiful, musical human being. Seeing him in concert allows me to transcend this reality into the musical one he creates in the sacred space of the venue.
(PHOTO LINK: NPR First Listen: Andrew Bird, ‘Break It Yourself’)
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