High Flying Bird

Andrew Bird looks like he has swallowed a sock when he first arrives on stage. Maybe that's how he always looks, nervous and pained- this is my first Bird show. The opener, "surf rock meets progressive salsa" Calexico, was alright but the crowd (as epitomized by the drunk bookish, bobbing Brooklynites seated behind me) was rowdy and ready for some of Andrew's singular violin plucking stylings.

When he arrives, the gold bathed scalloped ceiling of the venue darkens and a clear, spacey whistle falls through the room. Andrew Bird walks on and the whistle from his pursed lips is theme of the show, the ribbon tying each song together. He rolls his neck and clicks his glittering shoes (which he takes off after the opening, standing well over six feet in his stockinged feet). He often stops a song to fix the pieces ("I didn't quite care for that one") and his concentration, the pained look on his face in attempting perfection is searing. He sometimes trails into small, stuttery rants about characters and how excited he is to be playing Radio City ("Let's take a moment to like- take a moment. Breathe. You know, there's all these buttons and knobs and I just have to make sure I. Yep. Wow."). It is delightful to see this blue blazered indie superstar humbling himself with spurts of uncomfortable chatter. He bends his lanky frame into the shape of a timid pretzel, ambling, trembling, shaking his fists, and head. Andrew Bird is taken over by the sound and fury of his own music and it is magical to see such investment in one's own work. He is a marionette attached to his violin strings.

The stage behind him is a blank wall awash with colors dribbling down, bleached purples and greens behind Bird's signature stage fixture, spinning Victrolas. It amazes me that there is no screaming during songs at all. The crowd is completely respectful until the last beat of each song, after which they go crazy. "Scythian Empires" is a sweet triumph of buoyant, happy music during which Andrew Bird conducts with his bow at little breaks, waving it around like a pretty sword. Lights cast onto the ceiling looked like green moss stars. The addition of Calexico's horns to the song made the entire place feel warm and smoke bloomed around Andrew in a flowery sheet. I left spell bound. As my friends and I hurried out in an effort to beat the traffic, we heard the strains of "Fake Palindromes" bleeding through the wall and stamped back in for the encore. The victorious bell like whistle burning through the concert hall, the wavy indie-child hair, innate awkwardness, and freakish fluidity of Andrew Bird are now all sliced into my memory as if Mr. Bird carved them out himself with his machete of a violin bow.



-Kit

p.s. Photos via Flickr