I first heard this album in a terrarium store in Portland, OR, the kind with overpriced airplants and ephemeral glass ornament-like bulbs meant to hang from the ceiling with no holiday in sight. Probably a one-word store name like “Stone” or “Amour,” though I don’t remember it now. Lovely store, anyhow. Multicolored rocks, feathers, little clay mushrooms and beautiful, vibrating violin coming from the boombox. (Yep, boombox.) I asked the store clerk what the album playing was. “Andrew Bird,” he said, as though I should’ve already known. I didn’t recognize the sharp, vibrating violin as him, since his easily identifiable voice is completely missing from this entire album, beyond a few lyric-less lines of whistling. I usually love lyrics, but for distraction-less writing, this album is absolutely perfect.
I’m constantly listening to music—in my earbuds on the way to class, from my bluetooth speaker in whatever room of my apartment I’m in, in my friend’s car through an aux cord. That doesn’t stop when I’m writing. I need upbeat music to match the apex of my caffeine intake, as well as a repetitive beat and lyrics so they won’t distract me from all the words I’m trying to grasp onto as they mosh around in my head. Caribou’s Swim (2010) hits the mark.