In some anonymous bar, a well-kempt but otherwise unremarkable man and his violin take the stage. Aside from the disappearing sound of an in-house stereo, there is no introduction. Slowly and calculatedly, he begins whistling a melody reminiscent of Appalachian folk music, albeit with a somber undercurrent. The concert has begun, which the crowd realizes only gradually. His presence here is as incongruous as butterflies at a train wreck.
So also begins Andrew Bird's 2003 disc, Weather Systems. An ambling CD full of sentiment and romance, it promoted this unassuming, distinctly American artist from "relative unknown" status to that of "relative unknown with a near-masterpiece." Until its release, Bird had been more often referenced, probably to his detriment, as the Squirrel Nut Zippers' former violinist than as a solo artist. Never mind that he left the Zippers years ago to start his own band, Bowl of Fire, or that he's guested on albums for artists as diverse as Neko Case, the Verve Pipe, and his current label mate, Ani DiFranco.
But don't feel sorry for Bird's obscurity. "One of the advantages to eluding success is that you don't feel pressured to stick with anything that 'works'," he says, speaking from his farm/studio in western Illinois. "If you go into something creatively like that, you won't be happy with the result. Every time I do that, I feel like I've failed."
Initially, Weather Systems was considered one of those failures. After wrapping up 2002's The Swimming Hour, a highly refined chamber-pop disc that was perhaps his most commercially ambitious, Bird hoped to continue the momentum. "I thought I'd use the same band, the same producer," he says. "I spent the whole summer working on that record. And I thought, Man, this doesn't feel right. So I scrapped it and made this album instead."
In doing so, he disbanded Bowl of Fire and began working with remaining drummer Kevin O'Donnell, singer-guitarist Nora O'Connor, Lambchop collaborator Mark Nevers, and enough studio effects to qualify as a fourth musician. Bird made a move that has become almost cliché among rock musicians: he made a big album, toured and toured and toured, then holed up in an ashram to make a "back-to-basics" record. Holed up in a barn, to be exact.
"There's no more, 'Let's try and cram as much cool shit into one 3 1/2-minute song,'" he notes, with a hint of sarcasm. "I wanted to let the songs unfold and treat the whole record like one song."
Small wonder then, that Bird's diligence has led him to his current work-in-progress, The Naming of Things. Four years ago, he began recording demos for the album, the songs of which have undergone more changes than Michael Jackson's face. "This has been insane," he says earnestly. "I've made this entire record now three times and I've scrapped it twice," once during the Weather Systems sessions. In the meantime, Bird has learned a few more instruments, and more importantly, how to blend them together in the studio.
He reflects on the new CD in grandiose terms, claiming that because each song has undergone multiple rewrites, one alone could have yielded an entire record. "The last album was trying to be as beautiful as possible," he says. "And this next one will be clearly the result of four years' struggle and work." No less than seven producers are working on it, "in lab coats," he jokes, at studios in various cities on his packed tour schedule.
Despite such extensive studio collaboration, Bird now tours alone—compulsively, he admits—because, "I've forgotten what it's like to wake up and not have a show that night." It's akin to starting from scratch since, without the reliable energy of a full band, Bird has to find new ways to hold the audience's attention. Like whistling, for example.
"Yeah," he admits, "If people are chatting, I'll just hold a whistle until they get focused."