Whistling violinist Bird: The fun is "you don't know what's gonna come out"

In all the world, there is no finer whistling violinist than Andrew Bird.

Over a span of 15 years and eight albums, the Chicago musician has chiseled a niche previously unknown in pop music. Violin tends to emasculate rock 'n' roll mojo and a well-placed whistle is rarer than the red-breasted grosbeak; these elements, however, provide the cornerstone of Bird's compositions.

The result is some of the most singular music currently made: boyish yet professorial, buoyant yet shaded with pathos. His latest record, "Noble Beast," lays bare Bird's dignified tenor as well as his knack for flawless melodies and inscrutable diction. The public has taken note — "Noble Beast" (Fat Possum) debuted late last month at No. 12 on the U.S. albums chart.

The public has also demanded more Bird. From the copious interviews he's given, from his late-night talk show appearances and his lengthy (and really good) blog on The New York Times Web site, one gleans the clear fact that for Bird, who plays in Seattle on Monday at the Moore, the beauty of music is its constant evolution.

"I really don't mind talking about the songs because I still learn from them months after the record is out," says Bird, on his cell in New York City. "It's kind of like someone else wrote them in a sense. That's what keeps me going, is knowing that you don't know what's gonna come out of you. I'm not inclined towards the metaphysical, but it makes me think about where this stuff is coming from. It's still kind of mysterious."

It's taken years for the 35-year-old musician to hone his eclecticism. "When I was 25 I was more in a student frame of mind," he says. "I hadn't quite grasped yet that you can make something beautiful out of just about anything.

Trained in classical violin since age 4, Bird was long beholden to the great composers, Dixieland jazz, and Gypsy music. During the late '90s, he took a three-album spin with swing-era revivalists Squirrel Nut Zippers. In his New York Times blog, he wrote that he tends to "ascribe mystical/religious properties" to analog equipment — vintage microphones, Victrola horns, artisan violins — though these days he doesn't shy away from the soundscapes of electronic music. (Check out the 10-minute Afro-electro jam on the "Useless Creatures" EP accompanying "Noble Beast.")

Still, much of the beauty of "Noble Beast" comes from the intimacy and immediacy of Bird's voice.

"I think that's cause we started [recording the album] with the vocals," he says. "When someone's making sounds with their mouth, you're drawn to it because it's a human, it's a person, a personality, so that should get the most attention. So we started going for an old, soaring, big, almost classic-country vocal sound. We tried to make the songs sound as satisfying as possible with just the voice, and then tried not to screw it up from there."

While Bird's albums are painstakingly crafted ("My approach to recording is like a long, drawn-out performance where I go into the studio for four days, hardly eat, hardly sleep, never take a break to lose focus"), his performances teeter on improvisational daring. They're captivating: Either solo or backed by a small band, Bird sings and plucks and whistles that strange, mournful whistle while simultaneously operating a digital looping machine with his feet.

"Myself and everyone I play with come from more like a restless jazz background and we have to stimulate ourselves otherwise we feel really bad about ourselves," he laughs. "If you play a show where everything went according to plan, you feel like you're letting yourself down. You really wanna get that flush of almost embarrassment-slash-rush from having tried something risky."

Jonathan Zwickel: zwickelicious@gmail.com