Wordless

I've been to a few shows lately that I've written about but haven't posted. One was a piece that I'm working on for freelance, but it stalled because I don't know how to write without sounding melodramatic. I realized I just cannot explain it -- the experience. Which is rare for me. It's not that I'm out of adjectives. It's just that there are none. Not only did you have to be there, but you had to be me.

The show was Andrew Bird, the violinist who performed at the Middle East. I am quite aware that I am guilty of hyperbole and exaggeration (I have been to a million shows and they were all the best ever) but I have to tell you, seeing Andrew Bird live was even more powerful for me than seeing Jeff Buckley. It broke my heart and I couldn't listen to anything else for days. I started listening to Andrew Bird a few years ago -- his post-Squirrel Nut Zippers era -- after he was recommended by another musician. I try to check out the music other artists I like listen to. It's generally a safe bet. His albums The Swimming Hour and Oh! The Grandeur were the soundtrack to my summer two years ago. These albums are heavily Irish-influenced and swing-inspired -- most of the material is bright and reeling. I was not prepared for the show at the Middle East.

It was just he and his ethereal voice. Instantly you could tell he was from somewhere else. The sky. The moon. He was a ghost. The music was otherworldly. The audience looked stunned and awed. After the first song, Ruby turned around to deliver the dropped jaw. "Holy fucking shit." Who knew?

He was so unassuming and humble on stage. He was playing violin and guitar and keys at the same time. Violin under his chin, guitar slung on around his back, switching off between the two and playing the keyboard when he wasn't strumming. I have never heard a violin played with loops before, but he had delay and all sorts of loops and as the song progressed he ended up with a full symphony of strings behind him while he sang.

As he sang, his operatic voice hung in the air and he stared off beyond the crowd, beyond the club walls. He looked like an angel that wasn't sure how he ended up on Earth and was trying to sing his way back into Heaven. As you can imagine, expletives don't describe how this show was damn near a religious experience for both Ruby and me.

The other show that I haven't written about was my friend Jon's performance at the club he and his brother opened recently in Connecticut called The Space. There is a long history of both my friendship with Jon and his brother, and also The Space, some of which is detailed (with my living color photographs) in Mighty Catastrophe & the Magic Hat and Birds and Starlight. I wanted to write in depth about the show but it kept getting tangled in that history. The club itself is amazing, a listening space designed by musicians solely for music. The décor is overwhelmingly creative and the seating comfortable. There is no talking allowed.

So when Jon played, it was the first time I got to hear his solo magic live when he wasn't sitting on the sidewalk or in the corner of the practice space where no one was paying attention. There were a dozen people on stage. He played guitar and sang, others used piano, drums, percussion, upright bass, cello, violin, horns and assorted other instruments as the mood struck. It was like his gorgeous soul finally had sound. Like his TV had been plugged in for the past 10 years I've known him, but suddenly he turned on the volume. It was a whole new program.

The most amazing part was the crystal glass symphony. Two people playing wine glasses filled with water. They were tuned to specific keys and the players ran their fingers slowly along the rims to create a haunting swell of sound behind the other dozen instruments being played. Jonny sang. And in one song, he was so overwhelmed with emotion that he thoroughly broke down at the end, shaking and crying. We all love him infinitely.

So Jon and I have been talking about organizing some space for him to play up in Boston where he can perform a similar show (that has been the only one of its kind thus far) and I'm struggling to come up with a venue. On my end we've been brainstorming the use of The Garden Room, which is this deserted 50's jazz club next to my house that I've been wanting to buy and open for years.

This morning Jon emails me and says we need to discuss a date for his performance because he's got a show at his club, The Space, in Connecticut. And he says something to the effect of, "This guy Andrew Bird is playing with me. He's really good."

Oh my god.

I'm almost puking in disbelief. My first reaction is to call Ruby. It's only 8:30 in the morning. Ruby's phone must not ring until noon. This is a rule and always has been, especially on mornings after she has hosted karaoke night at Charlie's. I call her at 12:01. She too is in disbelief.

"This guy. It's like oh yeah -- this guy Jesus will be there. I've heard he can do some pretty neat shit."

It's like that.

And Andrew Bird is probably one of two people in this world I couldn't imagine talking to. What would I say? Because I don't have the words. Even Ben Gibbard from Death Cab for Cutie, who I worship endlessly, was worthy of a simple, "Hey thanks for the music. You're amazing. You were the soundtrack to my winter last year." Done. Whatever. But Andrew… I couldn't say anything because it would never be enough.

I got his new album a few weeks ago (the day it came out - freak) Weather Systems. I listen to it nightly in my blue and amber room, staring out the window and wondering... what? What. I don't even know. What it would feel like to be that inspired. What it would feel like to know your art was so important to you that you gave up all of your worldly possessions, rented a barn in some corn field of middle America, played violin alone for two years and wrote an album called Weather Systems.

I don't even know what to do with myself. I better go call Jon and inform him that I'm coming over early on that Saturday to be baptized for the show.