Noble Beast - Andrew Bird

Noble Beast

Andrew Bird
Fat Possum Records.

SCQ Rating: 67%

Could anyone have caught a first glimpse of Noble Beast’s bountiful landscape shot and pegged exactly what it would sound like? Sure… I mean, the grassland picture sprawls in all directions – as far back as the eye can see, over the CD’s spine and coursing across the backside’s tracklisting – not unlike the compositions themselves, which flow from one pastoral ditty to the next. Unlike Armchair Apocrypha’s cover-shot of a perched bird looking away, surrounded by black and paralleled with the back of Bird’s head, we’re given no direct focus this time around. That’s no fluke and here’s my point: Noble Beast’s direction was predictable on a superficial level yet indiscernible upon deeper listening. Two months ago I could’ve panned this album as an aimless follow-up to 2007’s meticulous rock record, but this isn’t aimless… largely because it isn’t a rock record at all. Grand questions about genres and ambitions come into play on Noble Beast; a record worth debating, if not emotionally investing yourself to.

The Illinois native’s opening couplet, ‘Oh No’ and ‘Masterswarm’, establish the album’s duality; short, whistle-addled pop tunes next to morphing, organic growers. The frequent appearance of both song-types isn’t indicative of songwriter-indecision so much as it suggests an attempt to keep listeners interested. Commendable then, as when you realize these fourteen tracks largely work amid unassuming, acoustic instrumentation, the tempo is pretty key. Instead of the pronounced electric guitar that opened ‘Fiery Crash’ or the pop chorus of ‘Plasticities’, Noble Beast slides between folk-flavoured nuances as laidback as ‘Natural Disaster’ or Shins-styled ‘Nomenclature’. As such, the sprawling divide created by freeform works like ‘Souverian’ and ‘Anonanimal’ – both of which reference neo-classical trademarks convincingly - are essential in questioning this album’s authenticity in the indie-rock category. Speaking of those last two tracks, I must confess that Bird’s thesaurus love-in is interfering with his craft, castrating expert instrumentals with clumsy verbosity. Just listening to him try to incorporate the word ‘Tenuousness’ repeatedly into a chorus makes me happy I don’t have to catch up with him over coffee.

Piece by piece, Noble Beast is revealing itself to be a daunting task to understand, decode, and thoroughly enjoy. While its adventurism does occasionally stray into meandering, I remain curious of its potential. Like Radiohead’s Amnesiac, Noble Beast is a misunderstood cousin to its respective discography; a release that garners polite approval and shrugging shoulders while skirting commercial acceptance at the artist’s pinnacle of hype. I might forget about it within the month or react like I did with that darkhorse Radiohead record and grow more accepting of its oddity. After all, let’s be honest: a discography is no fun without at least one full-length question mark.

Armchair Apocrypha - Andrew Bird

Armchair Apocrypha

Andrew Bird
Fat Possum Records.


SCQ Rating: 73%

I spent nearly three weeks trying to figure out why ‘Dark Matter’ rubs me the wrong way. The sixth song from Armchair Apocrypha is very U2 – the chiming arena guitars, the near-tribal drum-patterns – but worse, it’s Bird’s voice; it sounds stretched beyond the fragile seams of his songwriting, and eureka! If ‘Imitosis’ proves anything, it’s that Bird’s strength is in classical arrangements for indie-rock songs, not the other way around. Staccato-plucked strings and creeping guitar lines are where Bird excels best, affording him space and atmosphere to drop clever lyrics and atmosphere he proves himself so capable of delivering. That he doesn’t have the pipes to convincingly pull off a rock song is beside the point when you consider his other talents.

Speaking of atmosphere, let’s discuss a contrast to Bird’s occasional rock-star overreaching: ‘Armchairs’. It’s a sweepingly moody affair, a slightly jazzy comedown that lilts and entrances before suddenly climaxing, twice, with Bird’s voice proving itself worthy with the right material. It’s hands-down the best song on the album, although there is substantial competition in ‘Cataracts’; another slow-burner that matches Bird’s exhausted murmur with whistling, string-laden passages which flex his violinist impulses. Equally enticing are Bird’s instrumental compositions; both ‘The Supine’ and ‘Yawny at the Apocalypse’ band the collection into a pretty, nocturnal record for late-night listening.

Armchair Apocrypha is at times beautiful, displaying the best of his talents, while other songs sound frustratingly operative. In no way do I blame Bird for reaching into heavier territory, as every artist should stretch his/her wings. I just hope he finds the perfect height between beauty and banality for his next release.