The Surrealistic, Technicolor Land of Andrew Bird

The multi-instrumentalist and singer-songwriter Andrew Bird creates little worlds over the arcs of his albums. His records are miniature places of possibility.

On his latest, My Finest Work Yet on Loma Vista Recordings, Bird conjures up images of old movies, ones in which characters step through doors from black and white to Technicolor in one grand move. That’s fitting for Bird, who has long preferred creating soundscapes that are bold, symphonic, and somewhat surreal.

Bird’s world is part immersive symphony and part day trip to the circus. Or outdoor theater.

He has always been a bit of a lyrical and thematic contortionist. He squeezes words into bars, and he packs references into surprising places. See, in Bird’s world, time is a fuzzy thing. On My Finest Work Yet he steps back into the past, with hyperliterate and somewhat esoteric references, like a name-check of FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover. But these dated proper nouns don’t feel like a time warp. Instead, they naturally fit into his elegant structure of clever wordplay and orchestral pomp.

And there remains something theatrical about Bird’s music. “Don the Struggle” even sounds like he is tip-toeing around on some stage at first, until he finally bursts free.

“Sisyphus” and “Olympians” are large, sweeping statement songs — set apart from the other eight tracks on My Finest Work Yet in how they are the record’s closest things to fist-pumping capital-R Rock songs. “Sisyphus,” which served as the lead single, has a pounding rhythm and a rolling melodic hook. It is all woven together by a compelling story, Bird’s whistle, and his ability to flawlessly stitch in words like recalcitrant and taciturn. Plus, he tucks in lines of wisdom like “history forgets the moderates.”

And on “Olympians,” Bird quickly builds to a surging chorus, as if he is cresting on a massive wave. Then he slows again, sings about anathema, and gradually grows to another climax.

Elsewhere, Bird grapples with overwhelming forces, with the feeling of being small and out of control. “I’m coming to the edge of a rising ocean, such commotion and fear,” he sings on late-album highlight track “Manifest.” “Keeping all our eyes on what’s on the horizon / and all that we hold dear / I’m coming to the brink of a great disaster / end just has to be near.” Mortality certainly is a subcurrent here.

But it’s that cinematic, symphonic quality that Bird reinforces time and time again on My Finest Work Yet. In doing so, he is painting his own landscape. Somehow he does this without being corny, and, while he is now a major “indie” artist, his sound remains delightfully weird.