Andrew Bird

They call it the “Janus horn,” after the two-faced Janus of Roman mythology. Technically speaking, it's a double speaker that rotates on itself, exploiting the Doppler effect to modulate sound. For Andrew Bird, it's a sort of magical kaleidoscope of notes and emotions. Even on the Magazzini Generali stage, its profile looms center-stage like an old gramophone, with that Victorian-relic look that has always fascinated the American songwriter. It's become an indispensable part of Bird's iconography by now — the perfect symbol of that inextricable union of old and new, of rationality and passion, of complexity and lightness in which the whole secret of his music ultimately resides.

Bird takes the stage alone, just as in his previous Milan appearance, three years ago now. He even catches much of the audience off guard, starting unusually early. But he's never really alone when he has his violin with him. The threads of pizzicato, the weave of loops, the warp of the bow: that's all he needs to build his unmistakable toy symphonies. And so the melody of “Hole In The Ocean Floor” slowly unfurls, with the mastery of a practice honed ever more meticulously over the years.

This time, though, Bird has brought company: after the solo prologue, he's joined onstage for “A Nervous Tic Motion Of The Head To The Left” by Jeremy Ylvisaker on guitar, Michael Lewis on bass and Martin Dosh on drums — the tightly-knit backing band that midwifed “Break It Yourself”. An album that, just a few months after its release, has already earned a place among the most brilliant entries in Bird's discography. So it's no surprise that most of the evening's songs come from “Break It Yourself,” from the swirling curls of “Desperation Breeds…” to the swaggering accents of “Danse Caribe”.

The desire to recreate onstage that same sense of familiarity that marked the album's recording immediately emerges as one of the evening's defining traits. So much so that it offers a new sense of togetherness even to the brilliantly antisocial Bird, who limits himself to shyly murmuring a few words between songs. “No one can break your heart/ So you break it yourself,” he proclaims sardonically amid the burning surges of “Eyeoneye” — as if to say that the illusion of self-sufficiency dissolves instantly in the face of a simple truth: the heart always depends on someone, even if it's only that “you” capable of breaking it.

Then Bird and his fellow travelers move to center stage, huddled around the same microphone: just violin, acoustic guitar, upright bass and brushes, in a completely unplugged format never before seen in the American songwriter's live shows. For a moment, it's as if Bird were throwing open the doors of that red barn tucked away in the Illinois countryside where his songs take shape, amid the breath of the wind and the song of crickets. “Give It Away” blooms bright and urgent, drawing spontaneous applause from the crowd. The tribute to Handsome Family in “When That Helicopter Comes” kicks up frontier dust amid the violin's screeches. And from “The Mysterious Production Of Eggs” return the alchemical questions of “MX Missiles” (“Are you made of calcium or are you carbon-based?”), which Bird introduces as a kind of ode to the ability to survive.

More than anything, what enchants is Bird's total surrender to the flow of the music: his theatrical gesturing, his ironic near-spoken delivery, the way he half-closes his eyes and lets singing and whistling merge into an almost indivisible whole. “Concerts alter my body temperature,” he likes to say. “When your body adapts to the performance, it's left drained of endorphins every night. At a certain point, your very physique starts to change.” His gaze alone is proof enough: the gaze of someone who finds himself consumed by music.

From the latest “Hands Of Glory”, Bird offers up the chiaroscuro of “Something Biblical” and “Three White Horses,” while “Fatal Shore” immerses itself in the deep blue of the lights as if in the belly of an ocean: “When are you comin’ to shore/ To never fear anymore/ You never know any doubt/ Like we who breathe in and out”. The lyrics unfold in a tone that is both intimate and lyrical, and it feels as though they're speaking directly to each and every listener.

Some in the crowd try to call for the classic warhorse “Skin Is, My”: but rather than satisfying expectations, Bird seems more interested in forging a bond, in communicating something of himself. To close the set comes “Tables And Chairs,” whose visions of a world without passports or currencies, ready to be reborn from the ashes of “pulverized financial institutions,” sound more timely today than ever.

Under the watchful eye of “Sock Monkey,” the stuffed monkey in jacket and tie who invariably accompanies him onstage, Bird returns for the encore, once again in acoustic mode. What follows is a genuine rustic celebration, moving from the nostalgic strains of his cover of Townes Van Zandt's “If I Needed You” into the sparkling country-gospel of “Happy Day,” dug up from the second volume of the live series “Fingerlings” and reinterpreted with the swagger of an apocryphal Johnny Cash.

Before the curtain falls, there's still time to plug back in for one final farewell, riding the pulsing bassline of “Fake Palindromes”. The sound swells again, full, overwhelming, triumphant. And even after the stage is left empty, the “Janus horn” keeps spinning endlessly, letting its spiral of sound waves slowly fade away. You almost want to just stand there and stare at it, hypnotized by that swirling motion. You almost want to dream it might never stop. Waiting for Andrew Bird's violin to set his kaleidoscope spinning once more.

Photo by Elena Di Vincenzo

(30/11/2012)

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