Andrew Bird @ 9:30 Club

St. Vincent, Black Cat, May 22, 2009. Photo by Francis Chung

He is tall and thin with sharp features; indeed there is something almost avian about him. He is typically seen well-dressed and tonight was no exception. Skinny tie, slim vest, and a short sleeve button down under his suit coat. While he sings, if his hands aren't busy with a guitar, xylophone, or violin, he gesticulates a range of silent alien emotions--a hand on his head as if he has just witness some minor disaster or a grandiose sweep of his arm and a quizzical look into the crowd.

Everything about the man and his music is anomalistic. Yet he comes equipped with a bag of tricks designed to bewitch even the most jaded concert goer. Most notably, his pure and focused musicality. Throughout the show he'd rattle off a flourish of runs and arpeggios on his violin that left one with the impression that he could make even a toothbrush sing. At times he'd whimsically sing or moan--albeit with perfect pitch--along to whatever he was playing. Between songs his dry wit and banter charmed the crowd. ("We weren't going to play D.C. at first." And then flatly, "I was like, 'Why aren't we playing D.C? Let's go to the 9:30 Club.'") There are the songs themselves--a blend of scientific riddles, historical enigmas, and fantastic lies--with quirky lyrics like, "Their Halliburton attaché cases are useless," or, "All the calcified arhythmitists were doing the math." And then, of course, there is Bird's piercing and unmistakable whistling. Last night everyone smiled at one or all of these things.

The show is so well-rehearsed, the musicians so talented, that it fells like everything is improvised on the spot. There are elements of blues and improvisational jazz scattered throughout his songs. One can imagine Bird backstage instructing, "Tonight we'll play 'Opposite Day' with a Baltic circus orgy edge." And the band would know exactly what to do. With a handful of solo albums already under his belt, nearly every song he performed has been morphed in order to keep the sound fresh for listeners, or, more importantly, for Bird himself. The live version of "Catarachts" with it's looped and distorted violin noodling was especially haunting. He never seemed tired or board--just completely at ease on stage. A non-animal in his natural habitat.

When Annie Clark returned to the stage near the end of the show, and again for Bird's encore, she was visibly reverential. Her impish porcelain smile got bigger around him. The two played a tender duet of Bob Dylan's "Oh Sister," which was abruptly cut short by an "Oh, Shit!" from Clark as they both sung the wrong verse. The two smiled as if to say, "hey, it happens" and then resumed without incident. To celebrate a break in his tour and to mourn Clark's departure for Europe, Bird and company played a rousing version of Charlie Patton's "I'm Goin' Home." Minutes later, a characteristic gypsy violin line launched his final song, "Fake Palindromes." Superlatives come easy with Andrew Bird and as the house lights grew, it was clear that we had spent nearly two hours in the presence of a singular and unrivaled talent.