Appropriate that a man by the name of Bird chirps his way into an album called "Noble Beast." The rest is filled with rhythmic pulses and melodies that wouldn't be out of place in the Seneca Park Zoo aviary. The tender pizzicato pluck of Bird's violin arranges itself among xylophone, guitars pings, auxiliary percussion, and eerily melodic whistling, while on top, Bird's study voice soars with words that speak of humanity's estrangement from itself and nature. Lyrically, Bird has always hung on 50-cent words, almost as an after-thought, and I personally prefer those sung on 2007's "Armchair Apocrypha" -- all sci-fi and pulpy late-night TV grit. "Noble Beast" on the other hand is an album entirely too fragile for release in frigid, salt-slush-filled January. Listen, and leave this to grow buds in the spring, flower in the summer, and finally reveal itself, sparkling just as the oranges, yellows, and reds of October burn out.
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