I know a girl that makes paper birds by the thousands. She sets them, in their varying sizes, in my hand. I inspect them. They are resting just as much as they are poised in their perch; ready to propel up and away into the starry day.

Now I am looking at Paper Bird. A musical sextet, they resemble the birds that the girl placed in my hand: They are at once resting just as much as they are poised for flight. And while this band is too young to be seen as the kind of beacon that they will one day be, they have, by all accounts, left the nest. They have taken to flight. In test runs and scouting missions. Over the cliffs and back.

And oh my, can they fly…

More than any other act this year, I had heard more about Paper Bird before seeing them. Comprised of a perfect balance of the sexes, they are, in position on stage, a truly refreshing and exalted blend of today and yesteryear. They are, in sound and dynamics, an uplifting pendulum of rhythm and song and dance.

But what I’ve been asking myself, after pouring over their gorgeous and markedly unorthodox debut album, is: what kind of bird, exactly, is this collective of aviators? Are they a flight of cormorants? A convocation of eagles? A siege of herons?

Finches. Clearly, they are finches. Songbirds. Collectively, they are (fittingly): A charm or, a trembling, of finches. -Syntax magazine