Milk, sugar, salt, butter, water, yeast, and flour are separate ingredients, each with their own distinct identity. It would be hard for anyone familiar with any one of the given materials to confuse butter with salt, or yeast with milk. But if a skilled cook takes these ingredients and mixes them in the correct proportions, they cease to exist separately from each other. It's no longer, milk, sugar, salt, butter, water, yeast, and flour; instead, it's bread and you can eat it without ever realizing what went into making it. Even with a bad cook, only a pocket of flour or a concentration of yeast will stand out as a rude distraction.
Andrew Bird is a consummate cook. His ingredients are a bit different-- 20's hot jazz, garage rock, 60's pop, soul, blues, and classical, among others-- but he treats them as a cook would ingredients for bread, mixing them in the right proportions and emerging with his own distinct end product.
Where previously he was a stylist, Bird has evolved into an impressive chemist. The Bowl of Fire's first two albums traded in a very traditional brand of old jazz and turn-of-the-century popular song styles, and his collaboration work with the venerable Squirrel Nut Zippers has been firmly rooted in the pre-World War II decades. Here, he takes a quantum leap forward, wrenching his sound out of the 20's and scattering it through the various garages of the last four decades.
Right from the first couple of reverb-heavy guitar notes that announce the opener, "Two Way Action," it's clear this is a different ball of wax. Bird & Co. quickly get things moving, adorning the song's garage rock chassis with some subtle backward guitar and virtuoso flights of fancy on the violin. "Core and Rind" is a thunderous, Donovan-inspired commentary on modern psychology and the accompanying drugs, with Bird accusing his analyst of being utterly clueless.
"Why?" is a stroke of genius, a smoky blues with an ace melody and a weird Screamin' Jay Hawkins-style vibes backing courtesy of the Autumn Defense's Pat Sansone. The scorching hook, "Damn you for being so easy going," would have provided perfect fodder for the likes of Billie Holliday or Etta James. "11:11" follows, featuring a brilliant merging of modern indie pop and Caribbean rhythms with vintage 30's string accompaniment. It's such a bold and successful merging of disparate styles that no amount of explanation could really ever do it justice. This is also the first track where it becomes apparent just how spot-on Kevin O'Donnell's drumming is at every turn. The guy is just incredible, whether he's laying down a wild, tom-thumping rock groove, a rolling shuffle or a subdued swing beat with his brushes.
O'Donnell's galloping percussion fuels the runaway train ride of "Way Out West," deftly supporting Colin Bunn's ringing guitars and Bird's dazzling violin tangents. Bird's darkly humorous world view is in full bloom here: "If I was in an old hotel/ That happened to be on fire/ Maybe I'd jump or/ Maybe I'd reconsider/ And climb a little higher/ Like an oily rag in a dusty corner/ Like a box of matches near an open flame/ I'd jump 18 stories from a burning tower/ Sooner than I'd face this world of shame." Bird specializes in lyrics that often seem merely quirky at first, but reveal depth when given a bit of thought.
"Waiting to Talk," for example, spins some clever imagery: "Everybody's talking/ Nobody's listening/ Everybody's sweating/ Nobody's glistening." The humming, revival-type Hammond organ and vibes that underpin the song's story of a recluse lend a creepy, noir feeling and a sense of small-town paranoia. The gentle "Fatal Flower Garden" then gives way to the record's most aggressive track, the gritty, muscular blues of "Satisfied." The ferocious violin solo and wild rhythms would have made Eric Burdon or John Mayall proud in their respective primes, and here, it's just fun to hear the band flat out rock.
"How Indiscreet" lives up to its name nicely, another brawling blues rave-up, fleshed out with Stax backing vocals, rampaging drums, a sneering vocal from Bird, and a great Chuck Berry guitar solo. The gloriously noisy conclusion sets you up nicely for the funky, soulful interlude that precedes the closer, "Dear Old Greenland," a big, old-style ballad soaked in dramatic strings and maudlin spoken narration. The lack of irony is utterly refreshing in our cynical new century, and it's one of the things that makes the whole of The Swimming Hour a thoroughly enjoyable listen.
And that's where the key to Bird's success lies, really. We're stuck in an age where most bands are either trying desperately to move in new directions, or lowering themselves to pastiche. "Tributes" to the past so often degenerate easily into smug hipsterism, but Andrew Bird and his cohorts seem to genuinely feel the music they're playing. Better than that-- they're one of the only bands out there who have decided to treat the whole past as a single body of work to draw freely from, rather than restricting themselves to an era or a style. In the process, they've come up with a killer batch of songs that add up to a sublimely enjoyable whole. A trove of treasures like this comes by only so often, so snatch this one up while you can. You won't regret it.
