Andrew Bird - The Mysterious Production

But while the lyrics here are the stuff of sleepless nights and empty liquor bottles, the sonics belie any gloom or doom. The music on Eggs is ebullient, starting with a nameless, minute-long intro that features Bird's winding wind-swept violin and beguiling whistling. That's right, whistling-- he's credited as a "professional whistler" in his bio, and since he can make the breath passing between his lips sound like a singing saw or a radiant theremin, I'm willing to take him at his word. As for the violin, Bird's trademark instrument-- it's all over the album, but it's not what the album is about. Any plucking or sawing or twittering is done in service of the track at hand, not as a grand flourish of technique.All this talk about lyrics isn't to say they'll ever get in the way of enjoying the record. They're there if you want them, but you can still savor the fantastic popcraft of Eggs without giving a damn about what's being said. Andrew Bird's voice is the spoonful of sugar that makes this medicine go down so smooth. Much like his violin playing and his whistling and his songwriting, Bird's voice is versatile, simultaneously recalling Paul Simon's conversational croon, Rufus Wainwright's self-aware drama, and Thom Yorke's mournful wail. He can hang on one word and give it emotional heft, and he can nail a line like "and I'm gonna tie your wrists with leather/ and drill a tiny hole in your head" with the nonchalant whimsy it requires.
Ultimately, whimsy leavened with wisdom and humor is what typifies this album. When Bird sings, "Sing me 'Happy Birthday'/ Sing like it's going to be your last day," it's a call for carpe diem, not a requiem. The Mysterious Production of Eggs might wrestle with unsavory topics, but it does so with a shrug of the shoulders, a wry smile, and a heart



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