I once had a Sunday school teacher who always accused my classmates and me of grilling him with tough questions. Every time I would walk into the classroom and see him standing at the front, I immediately began scouring the messy bowels of my brain for any question I could devise that involved the mystery of the Trinity, the dual nature of Christ, the complex relationship between predestination and free will, and so on. The teacher often joked that teaching our class was more akin to interrogation than anything else.

Listening to a new album called The Mysterious Production of Eggs, I can’t help but feel like I’ve found a kindred spirit in singer/songwriter/violinist/self-described “professional whistler” Andrew Bird. Though Bird’s focus may be much less overtly religious, he, like my Sunday school class, is not one to shy away from wrestling with the difficult, often unanswerable questions of life. His chosen subject matter on this record is ambitious indeed—the power of imagination, the mystery of creativity, the source of inspiration, the nature of childhood, and the dark forces that seek to suppress all these things in the name of commerce.

His music is suitably whimsical and mysterious. Like a sort of musical Willy Wonka, Bird concocts sweet, choice morsels that seem to be made from pure imagination. One might also compare him to a pop music equivalent of George Lucas or J.R.R. Tolkien, for indeed, with every song here Bird has created—seemingly from nothing—an entire world that one can get lost in. His world-building tools are as pure and as noble as they come: Each of his creations is built on the simple foundation of violin, guitar, voice, whistle, melody, and lyric.

And oh, what lyrics! Bird doesn’t do his subject matter—or his listeners—an injustice by serving up platitudes, clichés, or easy answers. Instead, his lyrics taunt and tease us, with delightful turns of phrase and whimsically absurd imagery flying by faster than you can say… well… “sovay.”

The Songs

“Sovay” is the name of the album’s first song, but don’t run off to look up the word in a dictionary; not knowing what the word means, says Bird, is what makes it so much fun. In an interview, Bird explained that the song was born during a time of writer’s block. Thinking that his muse had left him, Bird cracked open a volume of old English poetry and came across the mysterious word that serves as this song’s title. Bird had no idea what he meant, but, for whatever reason, the song seemed to flood him with inspiration, and the great songs began gushing out. It’s an easy-going, lilting little pop song about fighting back against the forces that seek to contain and confine creativity. It’s a song about the tricky nature of inspiration. It’s a song about something happening that’s never happened before… “and a word washed ashore…”

Empiricism isn’t always sufficient in Bird’s world. As anxious violins and quirky drum loops merge to form a spooky, swinging rock number called “A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left,” Bird introduces us to a group of scientists who seek to boil down all the mysteries and complexities of human existence to a simple formula:

[We] asked our esteemed panel
‘Why are we alive?’
And here’s how they replied:
‘You’re what happened when two substances collide
And by all accounts you really should’ve died.’

Bird’s ragged violin and frantic percussion turn “Fake Palindromes” into one of the album’s big rock and roll numbers. I can’t explain all the details of this weird story of mad scientists, monsters, and singles ads, but it sure does sound creepy:

She says I like long walks and sci-fi movies
You’re six-foot tall and East Coast bred
Some lonely night we can get together
And I’m gonna tie your wrists with leather
And drill a tiny hole into your head

Bird sings these songs in a tenor that’s equal parts Thom Yorke, Ron Sexsmith, Jeff Buckley, and Rufus Wainwright, and his smooth cadence and half-mumbled asides make his lyrics all the more compelling. “Jesus, don’t you know that you could’ve died?” he asks in this song before mumbling “You should’ve died” under his breath.

“Measuring Cups” is the kind of pristine, melodic pop gem that the Beatles would’ve killed for. Here Bird takes us to a classroom in which mediocrity is celebrated, truth is watered down, and anyone who displays any individuality is told that they have a complex. He packs the song with enough clever turns of phrase to turn Elvis Costello green with envy:

Get out your measuring cups and we’ll play a new game
Come to the front of the class and we’ll measure your brain
We’ll give you a complex and we’ll give it a name
Get out your measuring cups and we’ll play a new game
Can’t have the cream when the crop and the cream are the same

“Banking on a Myth” is a dark, brooding number in which a fiendish, money-grubbing businessman personifies the forces of greed that seek to enslave or diminish creativity. And what does this deplorable commercial giant plan to do with all his wealth? Why, buy the world’s weather systems, of course!

From Stat Search to the Philharmonics
He’ll get you there with Hooked on Phonics
He’s the one to know
It doesn’t matter if you blow
In fact, it’s just a thing he thinks we’re needing
It’s a lukewarm liquid diet they’re force-feeding

When creativity takes a hit, so does the very expression of truth. “When the words we say have lost their bite,” laments Bird, “They hit you like an imaginary pillow fight.”  And, when imagination is suppressed and the truth is watered down, it’s only a matter of time before the commodification of humanity itself:

He deals in commodities of the abstract sort
Buys them in bulk and then he sells them short
Like talent, genius, love, even signs of affection
He floods the market, there’s no price protection

Those pesky scientists return on “Masterfade,” a lush, warm ballad that finds Bird addressing a friend—perhaps a lover—who looks up at the sky and only sees “zeroes and ones.”  Bird longs to show this person the beautifully, glorious mystery of creation:

I saw you standing all alone in the electrostatic rain
I thought at last I’d found a situation you can’t explain

“Opposite Day” is a surreal, inverted slice of psychadelia, full of unidentifiable sounds and unpredictable percussion. Since it’s Opposite Day, Bird naturally assumes that he’ll wake up as a cephalopod; imagine his surprise when he realizes that he still has legs and arms!

And today was supposed to be the day
When molecules decide to change their form
Laws of physics lose their sway

“Skin Is, My,” is another frantic, oddball drums-and-violin rocker. Perhaps still frustrated by the disappointing results of Opposite Day, Bird longs for something fantastic to happen to free him from the confines of the familiar and the mundane. (Or at least that’s what I think it’s about… as with all of these songs, Bird doesn’t make things easy on the listener, and all my interpretations are really just guesses.)

“The Naming of Things” is a glorious slice of nostalgia and a brilliant flashback to childhood. Here, as Bird relates the power of childlike wonder, his lyrical gift comes into full focus. Get a load of these lyrics:

Here’s where I disappeared
Where I fell of the pier
And to be rescued I did wait
I watched waterbugs skate
As they draw figure eights

“MX Missiles” sounds like it might also be sung from the perspective of a child, describing an admired grown-up—perhaps a parent—and expressing surprise at finding out that this person isn’t Superman, but a mere human being:

Cause when I see your blood
And the bits of your broken tooth
It gives me the proof that I need
It’s the proof that you bleed
And it’s a revelation

“Tables and Chairs” is one of the album’s strangest, most fantastic moments. It starts as a wistful ballad but eventually evolves into an exuberant anthem. Bird describes an idyllic time, a sort of Heaven on Earth, and his rallying cry of “There will be snacks!” is priceless.

Bird closes the album with a tense, brooding “Happy Birthday Song,” and it’s here that Bird is simultaneously at his most abstract and his most straightforwardly inspiring. Choosing to fight against the mundane by investing everyday moments with significance, Bird implores us to,

Sing me Happy Birthday
Sing it like it’s going to be your last day
Like it’s hallelujah
Don’t just let it pass on through ya
It’s a giant among clichés
And that’s why I want you to sing it anyway

Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of a Masterpiece

Elvis Costello once remarked that writing about music is like dancing about architecture. I think I’m beginning to realize what he was talking about. After spending nearly five months with Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs, I still feel like each of these twelve songs is a vast world I’ve only begun to explore, with puzzles, mysteries, and buried treasure awaiting me behind every corner.

In other words, I still don’t feel qualified to talk about this music in any great detail. But what I do feel comfortable saying is that Andrew Bird has given us here a masterpiece of imagination, a triumph of fantasy and wit, and a completely perfect pop album. It’s also a reminder of the importance—and the power—of creativity and childlike wonder. You may have never heard his name before, but know this about Andrew Bird: He’s a true original in a world where real creativity is far too hard to come by.