Andrew Bird is no prophet.
The 36-year-old singer-songwriter from Chicago does not predict our man-made apocalypse, and his lyrics, full of literary devices and a refreshing playfulness with language, are far too abstract to advance any political agenda.
Still, the physical creation of his songs, the devices and process that are his means to an end, do predict the ongoing balance of technology and nature. Bird balances traditional roots-music instruments and songwriting with an easy manipulation of digital devices.
His sound is where the pastoral meets the technological, and is both familiar and distinctly “now.”
This physical tension is apparent on his newest album, Noble Beast. Some songs feature his trademark orchestral layering. Some sound like time-honored folk masterpieces. At least one track—”Not a Robot, But a Ghost”—is almost completely devoid of folk-songwriter convention. (It actually sounds a lot like Radiohead’s post-Kid A output.)
While it may sound like I’m describing someone with a confused sonic palate, Noble Beast is not, actually, baffling. All of these ideas fit under Bird’s plaintive, emotive voice and he delivers songs that have immense pleasures. He’s a master puzzle solver, and all we see is the beautiful picture, forgetting about the pieces that surely went into its creation.
Most of Bird’s songs are built around digitally layered instruments assembled and molded into fullness. Some of the songs are quick, almost poppy numbers with swinging beats and recognizable, catchy choruses.
Album-opener “Oh no” is an example. Any artist who squeezes the phrase “harmless sociopaths” into a chorus with such elegance obviously has a gift for delivery.
Not content to just let his music hold complexity, Bird pushes his use of language as well, placing technical rhyme schemes and stacks of five-dollar words throughout his work, often to humorous effect.
In “Anonanimal” he sings the phrase, “See a sea anemone, the enemy, see a sea anemone, and that’ll be the end of me.” Say that five times fast. This would be annoying if it weren’t for Bird’s control of his voice. He strings along odd phrases, turning them into beautiful melodies.
This deliberate construction can also be the downfall of Bird’s music. “Fitz & Dizzyspells” feels a little too self-conscious, a little too perfect. He sounds better at full bore, like at the end of the seven-minute-long album bookend “Souverian.”
To get a full impression of Bird’s collision of classicism and technology, you need to see him live. This is where the blend becomes apparent. He dances the line, quite literally, on his toes.
A standard scene: a pluck and bow of the violin, Bird taps his foot. The melody is looped through a series of delay pedals. Then he does so again, this time with a counter melody that washes and sustains. Another tap of the foot. Then a whistle, and another tap. (Bird often wears colorful socks on his necessarily dexterous feet.)
Finally, he swings the guitar around, heading full-bore into his song. He’ll turn the loops on and off throughout the performance, creating his powerful orchestrations through a combination of fancy footwork and skillful playing.
The end result is that of an emotive singer-songwriter meeting the sweeping power of an orchestra, a sound made capable not just through able musicianship on familiar instruments, but also through computer chips and metal buttons.
And that is the lesson of Andrew Bird’s music. It’s a perfect, whistling melody strained through the technocentric universe of our time, but you can’t really tell. It’s folk music made modern.