This album begins with Andrew Bird referencing Wagner's epochal "Ride of the Valkyries"; it ends with a narrator asking someone to sing him "Happy Birthday" "like it's gonna be your last day on earth". In between are disheartening references to psychoanalysis, economic ruin, the slow death of living, and couplets such as: "You're what happens when two substances collide/ And by all accounts, you really should have died".

But while the lyrics here are the stuff of sleepless nights and empty liquor bottles, the sonics belie any gloom or doom. The music on Eggs is ebullient, starting with a nameless, minute-long intro that features Bird's winding wind-swept violin and beguiling whistling. That's right, whistling-- he's credited as a "professional whistler" in his bio, and since he can make the breath passing between his lips sound like a singing saw or a radiant theremin, I'm willing to take him at his word. As for the violin, Bird's trademark instrument-- it's all over the album, but it's not what the album is about. Any plucking or sawing or twittering is done in service of the track at hand, not as a grand flourish of technique.

The CD's accompanying insert features fantastic illustrations by Jay Ryan, one for each song on the album. At first glance, Ryan's drawings look like half-finished sketches, with faint pencil marks still visible in the finished picture. These sketch lines, rather than making the artwork seem sloppy or half-ass, give the pictures a sense of motion, a frisky kinetic energy reflected in the music. Whether the song is slow and somber, like the gentle "Masterfade", or contagiously upbeat, like Bird's musical nod to "Tomorrow Never Knows", "Fake Palindromes", there's a looseness and freshness to the playing. Even though this record took three years to finish, it has the life and verve of a one-take, time-is-money recording session.

Such verve is also evident in the words themselves. For the most part, Bird eschews straight-forward storytelling, opting instead to drench the listener with wordplay and imagery. He might send you to the dictionary a few times, but there's nothing wrong with a little research. He might also sideswipe you with seemingly random lines-- "Memories like mohair sweaters/ Stretched and pilled faux distressed letters/ Moose's horns and figure eights/ White plastic bags in search of mates"-- but Bird's love of language is so evident in lines like this that it's easy to forgive him his excesses and missteps.

All this talk about lyrics isn't to say they'll ever get in the way of enjoying the record. They're there if you want them, but you can still savor the fantastic popcraft of Eggs without giving a damn about what's being said. Andrew Bird's voice is the spoonful of sugar that makes this medicine go down so smooth. Much like his violin playing and his whistling and his songwriting, Bird's voice is versatile, simultaneously recalling Paul Simon's conversational croon, Rufus Wainwright's self-aware drama, and Thom Yorke's mournful wail. He can hang on one word and give it emotional heft, and he can nail a line like "and I'm gonna tie your wrists with leather/ and drill a tiny hole in your head" with the nonchalant whimsy it requires.

Ultimately, whimsy leavened with wisdom and humor is what typifies this album. When Bird sings, "Sing me 'Happy Birthday'/ Sing like it's going to be your last day," it's a call for carpe diem, not a requiem. The Mysterious Production of Eggs might wrestle with unsavory topics, but it does so with a shrug of the shoulders, a wry smile, and a heart full of awe-inspiring song.