Andrew Bird on Fiery Crashes, Letterman and His One Man Band
Featuring: Andrew Bird
Written by: Joseph Coscarelli
Published: Oct 1st '07
On the first track, 'Fiery Crash', from Andrew Bird's latest full-length, Armchair Apocrypha, he sings ominously the words from the song's title: "you've got to envision the fiery crash". Curiously enough, in speaking with Wireless Bollinger, Bird spoke those same words with reference to his own live show. Bird spoke of the frenzy he works himself into before he takes the stage. To him, the anticipation is a necessary pessimism. To the observer, though, the performance is much more like a smooth, airy glide than a burning wreckages.
In a recent chat, Bird spoke with WB about the balance between words and melody, while also musing on the split between his real life and on-stage persona -- indeed a frightening exercise for a mind as undoubtedly busy as his own.
WB: You were in Australia earlier this year, how did you find your reception?
AB: I was pretty happy with it. All the shows were full. I was treated extremely well. And I got to hang out in Byron Bay for few days which sure beats Chicago in January.
WB: You played as part of an interesting line-up – co-supporting Joanna Newsom with New Buffalo. Was that a conscious push towards the ‘alternative’ market?
AB: That came about through totally the labels. It's a logical choice, really. Joanna Newsom is a lovely harp-playing folk singer and is fairly obscure -- there's not another Joanna Newsom. But I'm not coming from the mainstream anyway.
WB: But you recently made your national television debut on Letterman. Do you think the mainstream is slowly catching on?
AB: It would appear that way. My theory is that people are not exposed to such a narrow media outlet anymore. Because of technology, more adventurous music might be on the rise. More and more you see people like M. Ward or Neko Case on television. Nonetheless people use the word avante garde to describe what I'm doing but I've spent some time in that world and that's not what I'm doing. I'm trying to write a 3-and-a-half-minute pop song.
WB: While gigging in a new country, do you still find yourself getting nervous?
AB: I play over 200 shows a year. I can't ever let my guard down. Every show I have to pay respects to the whole ritual. Like every time you get on a plane you have to envision a fiery crash. I don't so much envision the fiery crash before I get on stage but I get into a deeper state. It would be easy to allow myself to go on autopilot, but I can't allow that to happen.
WB: In the show at the Northcote Social Club you had to restart a few times to get the loops correct but it's obviously a staple of your live show. Is working with these loops a difficult task?
AB: No, it's not difficult, I've got it pretty well down. But it's like a penny on a railroad track -- it can get derailed by any anomaly like a little dead skin on your thumb.
WB: What kind of effects and programs are you using on stage?
AB: I mainly use two Line 6 pedals which gives me 26 seconds of looping time. I designate one rig for pizzicatos, for percussive stuff. I run it through an octave pedal to get bass sounds and use a filter for more tinny sounds. The other rig is designated for the alto stuff. The tough part is trying to keep in sync with each other. When I'm playing with a drummer, he will take a line from me I can sync them with his drums.
WB: What got you into using this type of technology on stage?
AB: It began as a compositional tool. I didn't think to use it live. The violin is a lovely instrument but it's otherwise a linear instrument. To have the technology to turn it into a vertical thing is great. I spent time on violin and I didn't have the patience to play guitar or piano, but I'm songwriter. I used to just play violin like a guitar but this allows me to interweave lines into a tapestry of pizzicato. I wish I could play fingerstyle guitar but I just can't, so I create it out of what I do have.
WB: There is a distinct element of ‘performance’ when you play live, as if the songs and your personality are intertwined. Is that something that comes naturally or is it a conscious effort?
AB: It's pretty honest. The way I am on stage is an amplification of how anyone would be in front of a couple hundred people. It's hard to say, really. Sometimes it's like an alter-ego and sometimes it's just a highly intensified concentration of myself. Thank god the rest of the day I'm not in that state I wouldn't last very long.
My temperature goes up and I get in a fevered, weird sort of trance. Throughout the day I'm subject to normal neurosis and apprehensions but when I get on stage, a strange thing happens. You wouldn't think you'd let your guard down but that's what happens.
WB: How did you first discover your love of music?
AB: It was an unconscious part of my life from the beginning. I've been playing music since I was four years old. At 15 or 16, things aren't going that well for anyone. You're looking for something to feel good about or to throw yourself into and find your identity. I had a romantic notion of being the best violinist. At 18 or 19 I started writing songs and getting out of classical orchestra world. Boredom and the lack of social context brought me away from that world. It's one that's not especially creative but rather re-creative.
WB: So that's what drew you to the genre of music you make now?
AB: There's the social aspect and the solitary aspect of it all. Now, I've spent 4 or 5 years in a more solitary experience. Instead of going on surface influences, it's a mix. I've been able to keep myself fueled from whatever was swirling around inside me.
WB: Your album titles are amazing -- does Armchair Apocrypha mean anything in particular or is it just great alliteration?
AB: I always choose things based on how they sound. What they mean can have a couple of different layers to it. Apocrypha doesn't mean what I initially thought it did. I thought it had to do with the apocalypse. I thought of a guy sitting in his living room alone making grand statements of the coming apocalypse and how things are going to be. But again, he's making these claims from the comfort of his own home. Now I think what it really means is where [Bird's previous album] The Mysterious Production of Eggs is about the mystery of where ideas come from, this is a nod to the more dubious origins.
WB: You seem to be an artist who considers lyrics an art form. How important do you think lyrics are?
AB: I don't mind talking about what my songs mean, but it still surprises me that they mean anything at all. I don't generally give the lyrics a concrete meaning. I don't take myself very seriously. But I've gotten people's attention. That's my attitude ... the least pretentious words possible. Words can go that way, but melodies are much more pure. When I start talking about what a particular song means I feel like I'm learning something, which is a really strange thing, as if someone else wrote it.
WB: Is the way in which you consider melody what draws you to whistling?
AB: It's a very personal instrument to me. It's inside my head. You can't get much more direct. When I'm just hanging out, I'm whistling constantly. I prefer to keep the melody in that form. [The melodies] are more inclined to be unusual if they're not played on a keyboard or a guitar. That can make your melodies more formulaic. [Whistling] has been dismissed because it's seen as whimsical but it can sound really intense.
WB: Would you describe your lyrics as personal, or of a wider perspective?
AB: They're definitely personal but it's buried in there. I'm not your confessional singer-songwriter. Things that I care about end up in my songs, no doubt about it. In that sense, there is a story behind every song.
WB: How important do you think it is for musicians to maintain a view of themselves as artists – as much as, say, painters, directors or dancers might?
AB: t's pretty useless. Usually when I'm a conversation and someone declares they're an artist, I stop listening. If you're truly consumed it takes over everything. It's up there with your basic things -- food, sleep, and sex.
WB: I noticed that, on your website, you advertise for helpers in promotional stuff like posters etc; is maintaining contact with your fans important to you?
AB: I like to focus on the performance. Sending out message via the internet isn't something I'm into. But after the shows I do like to say hello to people and know the names of the people in the different cities. It's a bizarre ritual. I want to know people's names and write them down. It just feels wrong if I go back to my hotel or stick within my insular crew.
WB: What can we expect from you in the next few months? Tours? More recording plans?
AB: I'll be going pretty hard until I get to Australia again. That'll be a nice way to finish it off. I'm recording in the Spring. I've got enough material for the next record I'm just trying to figure it all out. You think of what kind of record you want to make and then you go about not making that record. I think we can make a really killer dance-able party record which is not what people would be expecting. Things have been getting like that since I've been playing with a band -- lots of poly-rhythms and interesting beats. I could also do a very acoustic, minimalist thing with a lot of warmth.
WB: Since Bowl of Fire broke-up you've generally been working alone. Are you thinking of going back to a full-band?
AB: I'm torn on working with a band. I could work by myself again and when I work by myself, there's more of a chance it won't come out sounding like something else that has been done already. Sometimes I love togetherness and camaraderie and sometimes I just want to work alone.
