Playlist Rewind: Andrew Bird at The Electric Factory

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This post won't be the first to bemoan the acoustical nightmare that The Electric Factory can be. In fact, I hadn't returned there since seeing Tool over a decade ago mainly because mosh pits and tinny sound are no longer my thing. But the promise of an Andrew Bird show got me back to the Factory's sticky concrete floors and tinnitus producing sound. Fortunately, Bird survived the bee stings he endured during last week's interview with Phillyist, and as always, he didn't disappoint.

A pleasant surprise was the awesomeness of the opening act, St. Vincent. While sometimes her recorded music leaves me cold, her live performance, for lack of a better term, kicked ass. As much as we all want to support newer artists, I often find myself just counting the minutes until the main act starts, which is how I felt about Sandro Perri the last time I saw Bird. All of the air had left the room by the time the morose singer ended his set. But St. Vincent rocked it out and left the room wanting more music, like a Red Bull aperitif. At one point, a heavily mustachioed tambourine player landed on the stage. More performance art than rock show at some points thanks to the sinewy strutter, the set became one of the most memorable opening acts of my concert-going life, which started with Sha-Na-Na in the fourth grade.

Bird did not fly solo (you'll have to pardon all of the "bird" puns about to come) on this round of the tour. As Bird told Phillyist last week, Martin Dosh was along for the melodic ride, mainly on percussion. A bass player and guitar player completed the foursome. At moments in the night the guitarist was using a butter knife to play, perhaps as a capo? But I would love to know if there is some fascinating use of cutlery in the music world—please post a reply if you can solve this music mystery....

To watch Bird is to watch magic, as if he were a witch creating a spell on the crowd. Gramophone-like beasts lord over the set; one sweeps grand arcs, passing a mike on every revolution. Bird records his loops live, laying whistling over fiddling over strumming and then rocking it out over the track. Once he has created the sound he likes, Bird loses himself in the music. His head flicks from side to side, and honestly, it is like watching a owl. One of these times he will get so lost in the moment, he will transcend his humanness and that head will spin all the way around.

The four played a set that varied in scope over his many albums. At one point, he remarked on the tough nature of Philly audiences where "you have to earn it" if you want you praise. And praise he received. To thank the audience, he offered up the tambourine-mustache man, which seemed like a strange offering, but the crowd was happy to have it. But the highlight of the night was the end of the first set, when St. Vincent returned to the stage. Imagine a rock symphony complete with flutes and clarinets (if I had known the clarinet could be so cool, I wouldn't have quit in the twelfth grade), guitars and xylophones. Ten musicians crammed on the stage and played the most ethereal and driving version of "Scythian Empire" I could ever hope to hear. In fact, I may never play the recorded version again. It was a night where the love of music reigned supreme, and if Bird swoops back into Philly, you won't want to miss it.