Bird Brained

I went to Andrew Bird the other night at Music Farm, a former railroad storage depot downtown. Wowie wow wow wow. The opener was a group by the name of St. Vincent and they were incredible. Never did it feel so good to listen to Andrew Bird than it was that night. It was almost as good as the first time I heard him, in the Rail District of Tempe, on that beautiful night in late Spring 2008. Andrew told the crowd that he had caught ill in New Orleans but there was no indication of any such afflcition. He looked so thin you couldn't even hit him with a handful of corn!

The stage was simple. The only adornment being three phonographs, two large and one double-coned that spun in circles. When the music is that good there is no need for elaborate what-have-yous. As I sipped my club soda, I caught the tiniest peek through the crowd to his feet as he performed Imitosis and couldn't help but think why the hell were his feet so damn pink. If it was because he was sick, shouldn't he put shoes on? I love your music but don't give me Hog Pox! So throughout the remainder of the show, I found myself trying to stare at his feet. Without thinking on was on my tippy toes trying to look only to have people shuffle and ruin my chances of seeing. There I was, in what would have been the equivalent of the 6th row, left of Andrew Bird's center, essentially in front of the men's bathroom with two jovial tone-deaf girls in my ear. That's what I get for waiting too long to bum rush towards the stage.