Reviews

After all, he bears the looks of Jason Lee, the vocal gymnastics of Jeff Buckley and the violin playing skills of Owen Pallett. Plus, his biography says that he’s a professional whistler, which should be worth the ticket price alone. And if I were judging the night’s performance on his whistling abilities, the man would have to get a firm three thumbs up.

But, herein lies the problem. Whistling can be very cute, but not when every song appears to have their own five minute pursed lip solos. Dear God man, this is Manchester on a not too pleasant rainy night in November, not the set of a Disney film from the 1950s. 

And then there’s the esteemed Mr. Bird himself, a man who appears to have all the personality of a damp paper bag. Despite his rather impressive ability of playing a violin the same way other indie supremos play their guitars, he somehow manages to leech the lifeblood out of songs which should technically be making my heartstrings sing with joy.

For perhaps the first time ever, I’m almost tempted to throw an empty plastic pint glass at a performer if only to check that they are actually human and not some folk rock version of The Terminator.

Heretics, arguably the best song in his repertoire - and one which was used to promote Michael Palin’s latest TV jaunt - is stripped of the soaring gloriousness which exemplifies it on record and instead just sounds slapdash and lumpy.

It’s very rare that I run out of a gig before the artist performs their encore, but if Andrew Bird can be proud of one thing with his performance, it’s that he drove me to the safe, warm, loving arms of the bar downstairs. And I’d place money on the fact that the drink in front of me probably had more personality than his performance too.