Discovering Andrew Bird: A Personal Journey Through His Music, Violin, and Whistling

His shows seemed artsy-fartsy. As if an artist had made life his medium, and then, in a stretch, pained himself to express his dissatisfaction through music. A musical portrayal of suicide by art—that’s how Andrew Bird’s music came across to me early on. I remember that feeling, though I’m not sure why. Before I started listening, before I started appreciating, his music felt like something I wasn’t supposed to understand.

And then, sometime between The Mysterious Production of Eggs and Armchair Apocrypha—I can’t remember exactly—I heard a few scattered songs. Maybe at a house party I never should’ve been at. Maybe in a movie. Maybe on Pandora’s “song similar to” algorithm. I have no idea. In some ways, it feels like Andrew Bird has always been part of my life. In other ways, discovering him was an accident—serendipitous, and completely dissimilar to the music I was listening to at the time.

Now, he’s one of my favorite musicians. I might live the rest of my life listening to only a handful of artists as they write and produce new music, and Andrew Bird will always be one of them. He’s a violinist. A “professional” whistler. A loop pedal architect. He uses a variety of instruments and textures—guitar, glockenspiel, mandolin, and voice to build songs that feel like sonic puzzles. And he’s never satisfied.

One thing I still can’t decide if I like. Bird will continue working on a song even after it’s been released. Not a remix, more like a revision. He’ll rewrite it, re-record it, reshape it until it feels right. One song might become three, or four, or five. He’s as OCD about his music as anyone I’ve seen. A perfectionist. He’ll stop performing live if the tempo’s off, if something doesn’t sound right, and restart the song. I’ve never seen anyone else do that. I’ve seen Dylan and Oberst forget lyrics because they’re drunk and keep singing, hoping no one notices. But Bird? He’ll interrupt the moment if it doesn’t meet his standard.

Perhaps my connection to his music has something to do with how often he seems to show up in my life. I’ve only walked into the Guggenheim a couple of times—never a regular visitor—and yet, one day, I walked through the doors and Andrew Bird was playing a small, free show. Another time, in Salt Lake City, I went to the Twilight Concert Series downtown, and by chance, Bird was headlining. I had no idea. I saw him at the Paramount in Austin, Texas, and the Lensic in Santa Fe, New Mexico. Those weren’t coincidences. But the others? Bird always seemed to be where I was.

I’m not complaining. His music is among the most intentional and nuanced I’ve known. He’s an incredible musician, and the genius in his songwriting is remarkably underrated. He’s released over 16 studio albums, collaborated with artists like Fiona Apple and Madison Cunningham, and composed scores for film and television. But it’s the live performances that stay with me. The way he builds a song from silence, layering loops, whistling, bowing, and plucking, until it becomes something alive.

I can listen to The Mysterious Production of Eggs and Armchair Apocrypha again and again, beginning to end, and still hear something new. If you haven’t listened to Andrew Bird, start with:

Roma Fade (Live at WFUV)

Are You Serious (Live on KEXP)

Danse Caribe (Bluegrass Underground on PBS)

They’re all live, all available on YouTube. For something a little different, try Tables & Chairs (Live at Bonnaroo). Bird’s music isn’t just something I listen to. It’s something I live with. Something that follows me. Something that waits, quietly, until I’m ready to hear it again.