Andrew Bird is an undeniable musical luminary. With violin virtuosity, tender guitar work, and a penchant for whistling he creates fantastically polyphonic and inventive indie-folk-jazz-pop songs. Ah, well, screw it. It’s too damn hard to define Bird’s music with hyphenated genre titles. Perhaps it’s best not to try. Strict definition is futile, as Bird possesses the musicality to dive into any style.
Born in 1973, Bird was classically trained in violin. He graduated from Northwestern University with a bachelor’s in violin performance. In 1996, he released his first studio album “Music of Hair” while still in his early twenties. Since then, he played a short stint with the Squirrel Nut Zippers at the height of the 90s “swing revival.” After a few albums with his band, Andrew Bird’s Bowl of Fire, Bird continued his solo career. His last two solo albums were released on Ani DiFranco’s label, Righteous Babe Records. Bird continues to create gently symphonic pieces in his new album “Armchair Apocrypha.”
The album starts off with “Fiery Crash.” A snare drum patters under the slow-moving current of strings while the guitar strums out a rhythm similar to Wilco’s “War on War.” Bird describes a typical airport scene complete with “beige tiles and magazines/ Lou Dobbs and the CNN team/ on every monitor screen.” Yet, over the happily bouncing sound, Bird sings “To save all our lives you’ve got to envision/ the fiery crash.” The juxtaposition of hopeful sounding music and airplane crash fatalism works well. “Fiery Crash” asks the listener to maintain a pleasant outlook while simultaneously realizing that death may be around the corner. Bird requests only a “nod to mortality/ before you get on a plane.”
However, despite Bird’s musings on complicated subjects, the album’s lyrics are not heavy-handed or overly serious. On “Darkmatter,” Bird wails, “When I was just a little boy/ I threw away all of my action toys/ while I became obsessed with/ Operation.” This childhood board game rumination demonstrates Bird’s humor and modesty which are essential in keeping his music from becoming pretentious. This lightheartedness also appears throughout the album with Bird’s Theremin-like whistle that floats and dives buoyantly in songs like “Darkmatter” and “Simple X.”
Despite Bird’s phenomenal musicianship, his songwriting talents create the most intriguing aspect of “Armchair Apocrypha.” Bird approaches common subjects with modest yet brilliantly original lyrics. In “Imitosis,” Bird sings, “We’re all basically alone/ and despite what all the studies have shown/ what was mistaken for closeness/ was just a case for mitosis.”
Bird avoids the usual descriptive phrases of troubled relationships that plague a 15-year-old’s diary or Avril Lavigne songs. However, Bird also manages to avoid the contrived lyrical originality that turns Muse songs into rambling pieces of meaningless mush. Bird’s lyrics are profound and insightful without being indulgently elaborate. The violin solos and arrangements are delicate and appropriate, never ostentatious or gaudy. Bird’s vocals are distinctive and flowering with vibrato, but the vocals are never flagrantly grandiose.
“Armchair Apocrypha” serves as a lesson to all singer-songwriters: You don’t need to be sonically audacious to be effective. The album is delicate and captivating as violins, shuffling drums and dense but suitable symphonic sounds swirl into Bird’s imaginative lyricism and melodies.
