Andrew Bird, & the Mysterious Production of Eggs
I bought this album less than two weeks ago. Picked it up at Amoeba along with four other CDs. A week or two before that I went to the library and checked out nearly twenty discs. And somewhere in that time I also downloaded an album's worth of random mp3s and some friends have YSI'd me some albums too. Yet this is the only album I've listened to this week.
This has been an unreasonably difficult week. One of those weeks that comes along and punctures your big picture and renders all your daily complaints and aggravations meaningless. Whatever time I've had to myself (it hasn't been much), I've put on this album. Something about not already knowing it, but knowing Bird, makes it comfortable and alien at once, and I kind of need both right now. Something that isn't so difficult to find a toehold or to understand, but something that doesn't bring its own memories and associations with it.
I haven't really processed all the lyrics yet. Just the melodies, the quality of Bird's soft-spoken voice, the overall mood and tone of the album. Who knows what the fuck the songs are about; that's a mystery to solve some other time. All I know is that the feeling of this record is perfect; melancholy yet soothing, a hint (just a hint) of anger or frustration (or am I just projecting?), coated in lush melodies fit for a relaxing Sunday morning. I feel like I barely know this album, yet it will be something that has meaning for the rest of my life.