Here’s a riddle for you: What does a Persian rug, a sock monkey, and a spinning speaker all have in common?

Unless you’re privy to some secret knowledge, I assume you’d say “very little.” Surprisingly, however, I can think of at least one thing: they all shared a stage with Andrew Bird.

Andrew Bird played a show at the Carolina Theatre in Durham on Sept. 12. Having been a fan of his for a while now, I immediately bought tickets and made plans to go.

I felt a hint of skepticism once my friends and I reached the venue. Though undeniably beautiful, the Carolina Theatre seemed entirely too rigid for the sort of artist I thought Andrew Bird to be. Seats were assigned – there was no floor, no crowd to fight through in hopes of getting nearer to the stage – and ticket checkers were roaming everywhere, making sure that people were in their correct seats. Was this really where we were going to see the whistling, whimsical, glockenspiel-playing ex-member of the Squirrel Nut Zippers? It seemed impossible.

The opening act only intensified my dread. Australia based band Augie March trudged on stage looking exhausted and, though they tried, couldn’t get their energy up. The songs themselves weren’t anything special – a collection of loud indie-rock ballads with slower, quieter songs sprinkled throughout. The theatre seemed to be sucking any potential for quality straight out of the band. Hoping to calm my nerves slightly, I went outside to buy a smoothie.

Even after gulping down 16 ounces of pure mango delight, however, I was still anxious. Andrew Bird’s 2004 CD, “The Mysterious Production of Eggs,” was a pivotal album for me, one of those that define your life for a while. I counted him as one of my musical heroes.

Now 34, he started his musical career as a violinist, earning himself a degree in violin performance in 1996. He briefly joined the eclectic swing-revival band, the Squirrel Nut Zippers, but soon decided to forge his own path. Since then, he has released 5 CDs with his band Andrew Bird’s Bowl of Fire, and 6 on his own.

His real genius is in how he’s progressed musically, from a swing sound to one that’s more classically influenced. He’s never been afraid to take chances on a CD by switching things up completely or trying something new. He even counts whistling as one of his instruments.

The tension mounted as the opening act finished their set and shuffled off stage. What if he ruined my favorite songs, or the venue proved to be a poor choice and everything sounded awful?

The stage took a while to set up; on top of complicated sound equipment, the crew had to bring on a giant, gramophone-esque speaker, an antiquated desk, a spinning speaker, and a Persian rug. Once everything was set up, the stage no longer looked like a stage – it was as if we were looking into his home.

The lights began to dim, and I felt that familiar rush of “oh-my-god-I’m-about-to-see-one-of-my-favorite-performers” excitement course through my veins. Here we were: no turning back. Good or bad, I had to stick it out to the end.

And there he was. Andrew Bird himself, walking out on stage, carrying a sock monkey. As the crowd went appropriately nuts, he calmly placed the monkey atop the desk, walked onto the rug, and began to play.

My assumptions about the theatre could not have been more wrong. Instead of absorbing the sound of his music, it seemed to amplify it. I was surrounded by violin, guitar, glockenspiel, whistling – every instrument on the stage. “Sovay,” the first song he played, never sounded so good.

Sometime during his first few songs, he kicked off his shoes, and the stage’s effect was complete. We were no longer in a theatre; we were in a home.

Being on a stage like that could be distracting, but Bird completely owned it. He was comfortable and confident, allowing himself to get fully into his music and improvise without restraint. The energy he exuded, though by no means loud or over the top, was contagious. Each song drew me in, enveloping me in its notes and chord progressions as he swayed and sang on stage.

The most interesting part of the performance was Bird’s use of his own riffs to create beautiful, intricate layers of music. A device he had on stage allowed him to record something right there and then immediately loop it – it was almost as if he was sampling his own sounds. This worked wonders for the songs from Eggs and his newest CD, “Armchair Apocrypha,” which both include songs with multiple instruments.

This aspect of the show was awe-inspiring. Bird would pick up his violin, play a beautiful melody, then press something with his foot as he swung his guitar around him – and voila. The violin continued as the guitar began, the two blending beautifully together. Aside from some background guitar accompaniment, Bird played every song by himself.

As the concert was wrapping up, it dawned on me. Bird set up the stage like that not to create the semblance of a home, but because it was his home. No other artist I’d ever seen seemed so comfortable with their instruments, so in their element in front of a crowd of people. Then again, why wouldn’t you feel at ease with guests in your own space?

I guess I should rephrase my answer to the riddle. It’s not that the rug, the speaker, and the monkey all shared a stage with Andrew Bird – they’re just three parts of his crazy, musical home.