“That’s what started this whole thing,” he says. He’s solemn, soft spoken and wrapped in enough scarves and cardigans to resemble a Dr Seuss character as he slinks into his stuffy hotel room, where the curtains are drawn at noon.īut as Bird collapses into a chair, the dim light of a lampshade concealing his clammy pallor, talk of using music to connect with others perks him up. The 38-year-old violinist from Chicago seems deathly ill, eyes sagging as he recalls cringe-inducing memories of performing through sickness. Rewind to a day earlier: Bird’s tall frame is slumped inside an elevator taking him up to the seventh floor of the Park Plaza Westminster.

It’s the antithesis of what Andrew Bird has spent the last 10 years building towards. He’s swaying with a mixture of abandon and self-consciousness, poking a shoeless foot at a pedal station while a crescendo envelops the cabin, a custom-built horn spinning over his shoulder, a glockenspiel sitting before him.īut there is a disconnect: those watching a live stream of the performance, part of year-long art project A Room for London, are a step removed.

In a boat perched above Queen Elizabeth Hall on London’s South Bank, Andrew Bird is plucking and smacking and strumming his distorted violin, coaxing out symphonic suites of obtuse pop.