I'D LIKE TO think that I've been to some good concerts in my day. I've witnessed all sorts of shows — rap, emo, hard-rock, pop, indie, acoustic — and some of them have been really impressive. But, much as I loved seeing acts like Kanye West or The Decemberists, I have never had my mind blown the way it was last Friday.

The concert — part of the four-day Pygmalion Music Festival — opened with Dianogah, a primarily instrumental band from Chicago. When I stepped into the Tryon Festival Theatre, they were already onstage, emanating a calm tune reminiscent of Mogwai's "Acid Food."

While their following low-key songs were solid and even called Yo La Tengo to mind, venturing outside the box of toned-down instrumentals did not work for Dianogah. When they tried their hand at a song with words, the lyrical flow seemed awkward and forced, and the rougher song they played at the end of their set left a disappointing impression. Its clumsy beats caused the drummer to struggle, and the song lacked a sensible structure. Overall, it came off as very two-dimensional.

After Dianogah left the stage, a hint of discontentment hung in the air as the audience hungrily awaited the appearance of the night's headlining act: Andrew Bird.

When Bird finally did enter the stage, he did so entirely without fanfare. He simply walked to the center and began his performance, playing his violin with the support of a lower-strings backing track. He then proceeded to loop the violin that he had just played over the backing track, and add more layers to the mix by whistling and singing. As the song went on, it continued building, and eventually became quite intense due simply to its density.

In contrast to the understated and visually boring Dianogah, Bird busied himself by switching instruments and frequently stepping about the stage (presumably on pedals, to control his looping). His manner of movement struck me during the first song: He was delicate but powerful, almost dandyish, but to be taken seriously. He moved in an incredibly expressive and sensual way, leading the majority of his motions through the knees, hips, or shoulders; he also had the air of an eccentric intellectual, his longish hair crazily feathered out on one side, accompanied by explanatory, rhetorical gestures.

Most importantly, his movements and expressions had a private quality to them. He was captivating, but not exhibitionist. At times, he would find himself grinning spontaneously as he spouted his crystal-clear vocals, and once I caught a slight, rapturous twitch of the mouth as he bowed a chord on his violin, eyes closed, swaying slightly.

To me, it felt like something an average layperson wasn’t supposed to see; I was trapped in a zone of awe and privilege, observing a man’s holy union with the purity of his art. It took over my senses, the acoustics of the room allowing it to become embodied and wrap itself around me, bleeding into my ears and eyes and taking over my muscles. I could feel it in my face, and at one point, was nearly driven to tears by the sheer beauty of it.

I'm aware that that may sound exaggerated and melodramatic, but it could not be truer. Andrew Bird put on a show unlike anything I had ever seen before. It seemed that his reason for being on stage was not to perform for an audience, but rather to create art for his own fulfillment, which the audience was lucky to see.

As a result, he didn't seem to mind if the audience didn't understand his intentions or points. For example, when he was explaining the meaning of a new song, he spoke for a short time about "how we can and do become animals that perform one specific task." When the audience failed to react to his explanation, he continued, "You know, those animals with one weird appendage to perform one particular task?" Again, his explanation failed to strike a chord with the audience, so he simply mumbled something to himself, shrugged it off, and jumped into the song.

Surprisingly, this didn't give me a feeling that he was being cold or nonchalant. Rather, it became apparent that he had faith in us and in himself, and believed we would come to understand everything we needed to by the end of the song. That kind of tempered confidence permeated his performance, and is representative of the most important aspect of the show: his perfect emulation of balance and duality.

A high point of the concert, his rendition of The Handsome Family's "The Giant of Illinois," also illustrated this quality. The song was strangely melancholy; his otherworldly whistling was as haunting as death itself (the subject of the song). However, it avoided being excessively depressing or mournful, and instead lent itself to a sense of sublimity.

And in the end, that sublimity is what carried over to me. I was in the presence of something greater than myself, something beyond my control or comprehension. I was humbled by default, debased by a concept. And rest assured, if I ever have another opportunity to be so ravaged by the abstract, I will snatch it up in an instant.

MORE PHOTOS: ANDREW BIRD & DIANOGAH AT PYGMALION

Dianogah, a band from Chicago, opened for Andrew Bird at last week's Pygmalion Festival. Gargoyle photo by Sindha Agha