©Anna G. Dickson/Retna
How Andrew Bird Saved Christmas
By Ashley Patrick
It was April 14, 2007, drizzly and gray, gray, gray. I had the genius idea of celebrating my friendship with two people who were very special to me at the time by having a Timmy and Beth Appreciation Day. I planned a short trip from Cincinnati to Columbus to spend some money at the Appalachian gem, Gabriel Brothers, and to catch Andrew Bird on his tour for his most recent studio release, Armchair Apochrypha, at my most beloved venue, Southgate House, just across the river in Cincitucky. It was a fool-proof plan.
The night felt good, but the day got worse. There were some intra-relationship issues that didn’t matter all that much until the three of us were trapped in close quarters on a typically-Ohio monotonous stretch of highway. I realized that I was the most mentally stable person in the car at that time, which made me very nervous indeed. After Beth had a bizarre dissolution, wherein her wildly fluctuating emotions were scattered to the humid air, it was revealed that she had not been taking her mood-stabilizing medications properly. Adding that to my general irritation with her carelessness, my specific irritation at Timmy’s driving, and Timmy’s exasperation with Beth and me both for our “female chauvinistic attitudes”, no one was speaking by the time we finally reached Newport, KY.
The House was crammed full of regular-looking whatever people, some of whom I overheard saying they had been an Andrew Bird fan for just over a week, another had never heard the man’s music. I didn’t think it was fair and here I was pressed against the backs of the sort of giant, tall people who seem only to manifest at crowded events to block the way of and induce panic in small, claustrophobic people like myself. I had ditched my traveling companions in an effort to cool out and not bitch-smack anyone. We had already missed the opening act, Courtey Tidwell. I hate missing the openers at good shows. They’re such an excellent resource for discovering amazing artists you might otherwise not hear. But this was the state of things.
Andrew Bird began to play, and something spectacular happened. I found tiny clearing by the balcony railing where I could observe Bird’s multi-instrumental, multi-channel, looping, string-burning virtuosity- all done in his socks. My friends washed ashore on the little island I’d claimed and by the second or third song, all the tension between us had disappeared No one pushed anyone else over the railing and everyone left happy.
The other day, I was cleaning my new apartment. I was about to lose it, the place was so messy. I kept tripping on things and knocking stuff over. I put on some music, but everything that shuffled into existence on my Ipod was proving more an annoyance than a pleasant distraction. That is, until “Masterfade” from Andrew Bird & The Mysterious Production Of Eggs met my ear. It was then I remembered back to that cold April evening and the unifying power Bird’s music exerted over us. Andrew Bird, it seems, “hath charms to soothe the savage breast, to soften rocks or bend a knotted oak”. His effortless vocals, the theremin-like quality of his enviable whistle, the complexity and clarity of his compositions, coalesce in such a way as to divert my over-worked mind refocus my addled energies to a path of constructive activity. I can’t claim it will work for you, but it’s worth a shot. I mean, it’s healthier than picking a fight with a brick wall or guzzling a bottle of So-Co, or whatever effed-up way you deal with your own stresses.
Check out Andrew Bird’s upcoming show dates and feel the magic for your very own self.
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