I named Andrew Bird's last full-length, Armchair Apocrypha, the best album of 2007, an opinion shared by few if any. It marked the second year in a row that a complex but elegant pop record with a predilection towards hyper-literate lyricism left the rest in the dust (though the race was a lot closer that year than in '06 when The Crane Wife towered over the competition). But more tellingly, it was the second year in a row in which the ambitions of each act reached their unnatural apex. Both efforts were soaring, sprawling, sophisticated (to borrow a handful of quote line buzz words), but never fell victim to the mechanical hooks and forced melodrama that hamstrings many other "big" songs (typically, widescreen arena-rock anthems). But with the stirring but stable masterwork of Apocrypha, the realization that going forward seemed an impossible endeavor left a disquieting melancholy. It seems that the only direction available to Bird was down.
But even if Noble Beast doesn't elicit the same emotional outpour as Apocrypha, the lesson that eternal expansion isn't always the wise next-step strategy is supported by these results. Both albums witness Bird returning to the Bowl of Fire sonic ambitions; still introspective, but with a rich texture that suggests the efforts of many musicians—even the sparsely instrumented slow-tempo tracks. While naked, heart-on-the-sleeve storytelling can benefit some artists (compare Nebraska to Born in the U.S.A.), Bird seemed to prevail best when his clever rhymes were supported by subtly busy melodies. But the key there is “subtly”; they're never too cluttered to let in air every now and then. Usually the richness is provided via customarily quiet chamber pop means—twinkling keys, mournful strings and woodwinds, etc.—keeping even the densest arrangements astonishingly intimate.
Consider “Not a Robot, But a Ghost,” a track not entirely dissimilar to Thom Yorke's output, especially late-90s Radiohead. “Robot” would lean uncomfortably against most of the other tracks, but by slipping it in at the midsection and bookending it with a couple of short ambient instrumentals, Bird is free to tackle a modern expressionistic slant only hinted at in earlier arrangements without sacrificing the momentum of proximity. Sequencing alone doesn't bolster the experiment; Bird leads us to that moment even in song segments both preceding and following. The gentle folk/country roots of “Nomenclature” gives way to a gauzy basement of fuzz before continuing towards “Robot.” After, the first few seconds of “Anonanimal”'s severe violin hiss sound plucked from Jonny Greenwood's excellent There Will Be Blood score (heard again on “On Ho!” and others). And progressing through “Anonimal” is a bit reminiscent of hitting the sudden eruptions that made “Paranoid Android” such a remarkable song—far gentler and more playful, but with more left turns than a homerun hitter would likely see in an entire doubleheader.
But this is not Bird's dalliance with the avant-garde, mind you. As stated earlier, this one tightens his Apocrypha ambitions even while giving the opportunity to explore his limitations (if there are any) as a songwriter. Those adventures are nestled in the center pocket; towards the album's ends are more typical Bird exercises. “Natural Disaster” revolves around near-apocalyptic nightmares but the melody is so low-key, it could be described as an acoustic folk waltz. “Oh No” finds Bird trying to replicate the indie pop masterstrokes of hook-heavy Apocrypha cuts like “Fiery Crash” and “Plasticities”; coming up just short is less a criticism of this quaintly catchy gem than it is a reminder of the feathery brilliance of its predecessors. The epic “Souverian” is as complex as “Anonanimal,” but each shift springs naturally from what preceded it. It starts with a wistful whistle, unfolds into a pretty piano ballad and then hops off the bench to stomp its proverbial feet before sitting back down and then climbing aboard a ship and setting off into thick morning fog. And his fine violin-plucking skills are on display on the effervescent “Tenuousness,” which is much needed since it also contains a rare lyrical misstep—the forced historical rhymes are just too precisely whimsical to work.
Just as this album (like all of Bird's records) is easily defined by the “grower” cliché, so too does Noble Beast grow as it drifts along. Considering how well he integrates songs in the midsection and home stretch, it's tough not to notice his sequencing gaffes on the first side. After the whistle-happy pop track “Oh No,” we're immediately bogged down by the six-and-a-half minute “Masterswarm,” perhaps the weakest song on the entire disc. It's a true tragedy that it fails to come together since it appropriates a variety of intriguing ideas, fusing together bits of flamenco, jazz and samba. A tempo lift is provided after that with “Fitz & Dizzyspells,” an inordinately spry and bouncy toe-tapper that nonetheless fails to play to Bird's strengths—a small winner but not one destined to encourage too many to get up and boogie. And placing the languid, pastoral “Effigy” after that brings Beast to another unfortunate lumbering crawl. Sprinkling them elsewhere might nourish their worth, but they're still modestly underwhelming low points in an otherwise strong batch.
Despite those minor misgivings, Bird remains at the fore of the so-called adult alternative singer/songwriter cluster (the sort that are halfway between Rufus Wainwright and the Shins). And even the lesser moments land just shy of the mark—performed live with more room to breathe and evolve, they could be exquisite. Though it can't quite meet the heights of Armchair Apocrypha, it earns its place alongside The Swimming Hour and The Mysterious Production of Eggs as another prime Andrew Bird effort. Taking his lyrical marriage of the emotive and the idiosyncratic and shuffling them into his warmly atmospheric melodies; there's no one else quite like him.
"Noble Beast" is on sale January 20, 2009 from Fat Possum.
