Album number seven from Andrew Bird finds the midwestern singer-songwriter returning to many of the elements that made his last few albums beloved by his fans. It makes for a good album, and while Armchair Apocrypha can’t quite match 2005’s excellent Andrew Bird & the Mysterious Production of Eggs, it nonetheless stands as another remarkable entry in an increasingly varied and impressive oeuvre.
The compositions on this record find Bird moving farther away from his jazz roots—he began his career inauspiciously as a violinist for the Squirrel Nut Zippers—and toward the richly textured electronica and pop of frequent collaborator Martin Dosh. Bird’s orchestral tendencies beg comparisons to both Jon Brion and Sufjan Stevens, but he’s clearly more of a rock musician at heart than either of these contemporaries. Rather than flesh out his compositions to the point of bloating, he’ll let a sole violin or guitar carry the melody or even, as on “Simple X,” let the drums serve as the focal point for a song. He has by no means gone experimental, but he is approaching writing from a new angle. Nowhere is this more obvious than “Imitosis,” a remake of a song from 2003’s Weather Systems that maintains the central melodic trope while completely overhauling the rhythm section.
Still, what really keeps us coming back is Bird’s lyrical cleverness, dark sense of humor and beautiful, languid delivery. His thick vocals are as strong here as on anything he’s done. On the charging first half of the album he’s all romance and passion, while there’s a palpable wistfulness and strain to pared-down songs like “Cataracts” and “Scythian Empire.” Bird is maturing as a musician, and it appears that he’s doing so gracefully.
