Andrew Bird

It’s hard to talk about Andrew Bird without mentioning “The Mysterious Production of Eggs,” his 2005 opus. It may be an equally difficult task to top that album, even for its brilliant creator.Despite the evolution Bird demonstrates in his latest, “Armchair Apocrypha,” the album is just not as captivating as its immediate predecessor.

Listening to Bird’s subtle stylings and soaring, intellectual, rustic chamber pop, it seems impossible that he could have ever been a part of the ultra-swinging Squirrel Nut Zippers.

He has transformed from floor-stomping fiddler into a mega-orchestral artist for the ages.

Yet some aspects of “Armchair Apocrypha” aren’t improvements over Bird’s earlier work. The album seems to aspire to the grand populism of arena rock, but it loses the catchy hooks and grab-your-head lyrics that popped out of “Mysterious Production.”

For example, even though the song “Dark Matter” begins with whistling that’s Bird-ish, it bursts into guitar crescendos and epic sonics that seem plucked straight from U2’s “Joshua Tree.”

Consider him a revisionist, not a plagiarist. Bird’s music often complements a simple melody in the foreground with complex string arrangements in the background.

However, in some songs, he tends to oversimplify. In “Plasticities,” Bird matches his voice with the guitar, note-for-note.

Although it aligns with his style of mixing the simple with the mega-sonic, here it comes off as too basic.

Bird frequently does a wonderful job of layering different elements, but occasionally, mixing too many ideas works to the detriment of the song as a whole.

Take “Armchairs.” Bird begins with a slow wash of sound, which grows and changes slightly as piano comes to the fore.

The song turns to lounge jazz, and then the song goes big at the end, crashing and bold—and then, nearly six minutes in, the rhythm shifts to make it sound like another song.

The multidimensionality of it all, the beauty in both the background and the foreground of the soundscape, is moving—yet it detracts from its ability to move as one cohesive piece.

But less-than-best Bird is still miles better than most of today’s music: “Armchair Apocrypha” is sweeping and atmospheric, with ego-probing lyrics that spark neuron firestorms—and establish Bird as undeniably indie, at least for now.

Bird is dealing with topics of self-reflection that require more existential honesty than many listeners will feel comfortable giving.

Would most listeners agree with Bird when, in “Imitosis,” he sings that “what was mistaken for closeness was just a case for mitosis?” And that in fact “we’re all basically alone?”

“Apocrypha” closes with the instrumental “Yawny at the Apocalypse,” which fades out to the tune of chirping birds. In the end, the disc proves to be something precious, almost as delicate as an “egg.” Each of Birds’ albums is different, deliciously so, and Bird ultimately provides beauty in so many different ways that it’s hard to feel disappointed for long.

Still, some may prefer a work of a more “Mysterious” sort.