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Artist: Andrew Bird. Venue: Crawdaddy, Dublin. Date: 19th March 2007.
A rather ill-looking Andrew Bird discreetly takes to the stage in a woolly hat, coughing into his hand while explaining to the crowd that he almost didn’t make it here tonight, that this, in fact, is the first time he has been out of his hotel room. True to his word, he appears capable of keeling over at any minute, yet he assures us that he’s prepared to soldier on regardless. “I’m enjoying feeling clammy,” he sniffs enthusiastically, trying to convince himself that he’s over the worst of it in the way only a true flu-sufferer can, before quipping: “…I feel like a new born calf!” At this point, one can only hope his musical abilities have managed to remain as much as the shoot-from-the-hip, self-effacing witticisms he seems to disperse so easily.
Due to the fragility of the former Squirrel Nut Zipper’s voice, tonight’s set list has to be done away with altogether. Bird’s only companion for the evening – drummer and fellow live sampler Martin Dosh – holds the original list of songs in his hands, shaking his head lamentably before noting aloud on what might have been. Yet all is not lost. Forced into drawing upon some older numbers (or at least ones sung in the key of C#), the show suddenly takes on an improvisational feel, unexpectedly thrusting a door wide open on Bird’s back catalogue. As it happens, the idea of a set comprised of older material is quite a welcome one, for despite the undeniable quality of Bird’s superb new album, Armchair Apocrypha, Ireland was somewhat cruelly left out of the extensive touring that followed Bird’s previous masterpiece, The Mysterious Production of Eggs.
Thus after nimbly plucking his way through “A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left,” a mixture of rarities and exclusives are spontaneously unveiled out of sheer necessity, with Bird himself not even sure of what’s coming next. “Glass Figurine” (Thrills), “Dear Dirty” (Fingerlings 3), and a new instrumental piece created for a Chicago dance company are all brandished alongside more familiar gems such as “The Naming of Things,” “Skin Is, My,” and “Tables and Chairs.” But it is with the classic “Why?” that the ever escalating temperature inside Crawdaddy rises even further, pulling us into the same haunted, feverish realm Andrew Bird is reluctantly crooning to us from.
With eyes closed, bow dangling from one hand as if it were a cane, the violinist rocks back and forth like a blind man in a trance, capping off the mesmerising rendition with a hushed, confrontational dialogue between the characters he has conjured up. Sick he may well be, but for three and a half magic minutes Bird produces something that tops the many fine live versions of the song already recorded, firmly putting his decision to perform rather than cancel beyond all doubt in the process.
Using pedals to record himself live, Bird provides his own back-up band layer by layer, harnassing together a structuralist performance that demands enough precision to prove a handful even for someone who wasn’t feeling under the weather. So it is understandable, then, that tonight certain complexities are doomed to pass off less than smoothly. While Dosh’s subdued accompaniment lies in contrast to the colourful one-man show he opened with, the occasionally faltering dynamic between maestro and drummer poses the far more conspicuous issue.
Falling prey to an increasing communication breakdown between loop misfirings, sample mistimings, and repeated illness-induced confusion, the momentum stutters somewhat…but to single it out as such would not do justice to the compensatory factor of Bird’s presence. So long overdue is this appearance – the first of two in Dublin over three days – that the charms of his unique live show, however diminished, are more than enough to make up for any uncharacteristic errors. In fact, not only does Bird’s grogginess yield a one-of-a-kind playlist, but his judgement seems sufficiently impaired to take on calls for songs he admits he has never played with Dosh before, affording the audience the rare delight of having their requests pandered to unquestioningly.
Perhaps only too aware of the anticipation surrounding his long-awaited return to Ireland, Bird maintains his struggling efforts to the end, leaving one with the impression that he would have carried on even if it meant being wheeled out on a hospital bed, complete with IV-drip in tow. Watching him hurriedly ducking off stage before he begins to froth at the mouth, it’s with no small sense of selfishness – and even a little guilt – that the cries for an encore ring out around the tiny music hall. Ultimately they prove to be in vain, yet they are at least placated not only by the knowledge that Bird shall return – health permitting – in 48 hours time, but that this has been a night both performer and audience will remember for some time to come, albeit for quite different reasons.
