The Bird at the Carneie

I'll admit it. I'm the self-proclaimed music elitist, the one who laughs at your so-called "indie bands," or mercilessly mocks those who jam to Miley and Britney on their pink iPod Nano's. I shy away from anything that could potentially be used in an episode of "Grey's Anatomy" or "Private Practice," I have nightmares about Shonda Rhimes discovering my favorite bands. (David Carbonara, you just keep using The Decemberists for the betterment of "Mad Men." My battle is not with you.) So, stereotypicaly thinking Andrew Bird was much the same, I wore the cynical cap to his concert yesterday at Carnegie Hall.
Forgive me, Andrew Bird, for ever doubting that your first performance kicking off your "Noble Beast" tour would be anything short of breath-taking.

The concert opened punctually at 8 o'clock with musical Renaissance man, Stephen Dost (of the band Dost), who builds songs from the ground up. Why not start with percussion on the top of a keyboard? Then, a synth vamp. Then, layer on a glockenspiel, some guitar, a saxophone solo. And you've got the very definition of "geek rock" - the kind of music where the flesh and bone is created, exposed, covered by layers and layers of musical pseudo-stratified epithelium.

And, the glorious moment arrived. Andrew Bird walked out on stage, violin in hand, in a smartly tailored skinny suit. The stage was set with ironic throwbacks. Victorian phonographs were scattered across the stage, as well as drums, microphones, and a rug - to make Carnegie feel a bit more homey. The crowd went wilder than any noble beast could. I couldn't help but be swept in by the grandeose moment. "Wow," Bird said. "This is pretty cool, I guess."

The concert was mostly new tracks from "Noble Beast," which Bird explained as such: "So, as you know, I just came out with a new album." [Racious cheers and applause]. "'Noble Beasts.' I'd like to think everyone says the album with the same inflection as David Attenborough." [Some appreciative laugher, more confused chortles; apparently, indie kids don't watch the BBC]. Every song was surprising, each one performed better than the last. Proving that whistling did not in fact die with "The Andy Griffith Show," Bird's magical chops whistled his way through "Masterswarm," "Oh No," and "Tenuousness."

"It's nice," Bird confided late into the concert, "to be able to rock out like this. On the album, I have to keep the folk up, but this is nice."

It was nice. More than nice. Bird's unique mix of quirky lyrics and brazen musicianship (he broke into several sonata-type solo's that were in themselves worthy of Carnegie Hall). I've been converted to the Church of the Bird, and I don't think I'll go back.

Noble job, Mr. Bird. Noble job.

Plight of the Conchords

It is, indeed, Business Time for New Zealand's second most popular folk novelty band members Jemaine Clement and Bret McKenzie. After a few shadowed months of doubt and wallowing, "Flight of the Conchords" is back and zanier than ever. Though no fan is more loyal than Mel, the group's lone fan, Conchord tolerators might remember where the band was at the end of Season 1: Murray (the brilliant Rhys Darby) introduced a third Conchord, Todd (comedian Todd Barry), the over-zealous bongo player. Bret quits in protest, and forms his own Flight of the Conchords with keytar player Demetri (comedian Demetri Martin). After a bit of quibbling, Demetri and Todd split...to form their dream band of The Crazy Dogggs. With a breakaway hit ("The Doggy Bounce"), America has spoken with dubious taste, and Murray is on his way to being an actual person with an actual managerial position with actual gigs (arf, arf!). Bret and Jermaine play the library.


Season Two picks up exactly there. Murray has hit the big time, lunches regularly with Tori Amos, and drives a BMW, though fancy gilt casings cannot hide his former self ("R. Kelly wants to perform with you...do you want me to find out who that is?") Seeing that their future is bleak with Murray managing both the Crazy Dogggs and the Conchords, Bret fires Murray. Murray sings.

This is not the "Goodbye, Leggy Blonde" of last season. Murray is no longer a failing manager, and neither is he a failing singer. In a grandiose salute to Pavarotti, Murray dawns a tux and a dashing vibrato in a grand cinematic gesture of his grief. I forgot how much emptier my life was without this darling show.

Life Without Murray becomes slightly easier. Bret and Jemaine manage themselves, and manage to land a gig all their own, writing a jingle for Femident, the Woman's Only toothpaste. I must admit, while I did enjoy the Kiwi's donning Toothpaste hats and emerging from giant tubes, it struck me that the dynamic inexplicably, insurmountably, changed. With the cult success of Season 1, HBO gave "Conchords" a bigger, flashier budget, which resulted in a bigger, flashier show. And, as we all know, there is no killer to creativity like a big budget and the desire for more-well-money.

Murray finds out that money is no longer expected. Turns out, "Doggy Bounce" was nothing more than the doppelganger song from a Czech 80's band. Cue lawsuit, indemnity, and Murray's eminent poverty. He begins living out of his Honda Civic. He eats there, sleeps there, shaves there, conducts band meetings there. And he would for a very long time, if Bret and Jermaine had not needed green cards to get paid for their (gasp!) paying gig.

The songs in the premier were not as wholly rewarding as they were in episodes past. Ending the episode with a song about horny angels? Though I'm a supporter of non sequiturs and surrealist sequences, this one left me scratching my head. What purpose did this serve? How did it further the plot? Why do I now wonder what angels have going on under their robes? No thank you, FotC. No thank you.

In the end, Murray keeps his "other" job at the New Zealand Consulate, as Steve never realized he left. Bret and Jemaine are back to their old plight of scoring gigs and shaking off Mel. And all was right in the surreal New York that these crazy Kiwi's inhabit.

Bethertainment Weekly Grade: B