Given that “Are You Serious” is Andrew Bird’s 13th studio album (among dozens of other projects and EPs), one might think that Bird's looping violin arpeggios and rolling rhythms would have become tiresome by now. In his newest release, however, Bird brings to light new thoughts on his personal life. He's married now, and he’s back with a new intimacy in his lyrics that seems to zero in on his life as opposed to chasing high-flying philosophies.

The question in the album’s title seems applicable to Bird himself as an artist. Trained in violin performance, he started out in a jazz/blues/folk-inspired band before embarking on his career as a solo artist. His songs often have a whimsical lilt to them, but there is nevertheless a serious side to his lyrics—take, for example, the ontological questioning in “Lazy Projector” (“If memory serves us, then who owns the master”) or the nastily dark humor of “Heretics” (“Tell us what we did wrong and you can blame us for it / Turn a clamp on our thumbs, we'll sew a doll about it”). “Are You Serious” embraces that same mish-mash of light and dark, but with new perspectives and themes like finding solace and truth. The result is 11 piquant tracks that are a joy to listen to while remaining thought-provoking with respect to subject matter.

The main subject of many of these songs is the space between two people—a theme that’s been explored previously in Bird’s works, but perhaps never quite so well. Though romantic ballads are easy to come by, Bird uses his melodies to convey the drama inherent in any relationship. In the most curiously structured song on the album, "Left-Handed Kisses,” lines from Bird and guest artist Fiona Apple echo back and forth, each artist steadfastly clinging to his or her own convictions. The setup is made overtly clear in the accompanying music video: Bird's character, who prides himself on refraining from such overblown overtures, finds himself writing a love song. His reluctance is made clear both in the lyrics and in the questioning melody of his violin. Apple’s character, meanwhile, righteously defends her own romantic notions but still feels a need to explain herself to her supposedly cynical lover. Neither side of this argument seems to be the correct one; it feels as if the main thrust is trying to find a balance between two modes of thought before the receiver clicks at the end of the song. The nearly literal quality of the music itself, which reflects this tug-of-war with starts, stops, and slides, is what makes Bird such a wonderful performer and musician.

In spite of new twists such as this duet structure, Bird pulls on his strong tradition of improvisation with the easy, flowing sounds of songs like “Roma Fade” and “Puma,” reminiscent of past albums like “Break It Yourself” and “Noble Beast.” He still relies on his looping pedal to layer melodies on top of one another, but these melodies are newer and fresher than those on his older albums. The distortions Bird applies to his violin amplify his alternative rock tendencies, making the instrument seem more like a solo guitar than a member of an orchestra. “Puma” also features Bird's customary rhyming, which often can pile up on top of itself as if Bird is merely a child listing words that sound the same. As a lyricist, he is known for his intricate combinations of words both common and bizarre, but this record delivers more concrete lyrics.

This shift becomes clear in the second half of the record, where the last four songs tie together in a narrative. First, the main melody of "Saints Preservus" echoes a contemporary arrangement of the biblical Psalm 23, which speaks of the religious theme of shepherding and letting go of one's fears. And even as Bird, in the following "The New Saint Jude," pulls on the history of the patron saint of lost causes, his lyrics hint at a much more personal struggle somehow liberating in its darkness: "Ever since I gave up on hope, I've been feeling so much better."

That sense of freedom has always been present in Bird’s work, but it manifests in a different manner here. On other albums, Bird’s lyrics tended to be cerebral and surreal, referencing aubergine dreams and Scythian empires. In contrast, this record contains many more simple moments, as in lines such as the album’s concluding sentence: “I think I’ve found someone.” Lyrical accessibility adds a bit more humanity to Bird’s music, though it rarely lacked any in the first place. In fact, this album doesn’t explicitly do anything that Bird’s discography hasn’t already explored. It’s simply another extension of what he does best: expressing human emotion through the strings of his violin.

—Staff writer Bridget R. Irvine can be reached at bridget.irvine@thecrimson.com.