M. Ward
End of Amnesia
[Future Farmer]
Rating: 7.6
Amnesia always seemed to me a condition without any contemporary relevance--
like, say, consumption-- that is more characteristic of the fin-de-siecle,
when Freud analyzed it and Kafka's fiction embodied it. But recently, with
the century having turned again, amnesia has come roaring back into the
artistic consciousness. The only difference is that (supposedly) it's been
spurned by a technological boom rather than an industrial one. Or so Radiohead
would have us believe.
M. Ward's here to say, "Fuck that!" Or something like that. Whether it's an
old girlfriend who broke his heart or a musical devotion to deceased folk,
country and blues artists, he's not about to forget the past. The opening,
titular track is a perfect example of the latter. A piano stumbles through
the same three notes before bowing to a folk guitar which Ward calmly picks
in a pleasant, traditional manner. It's the kind of bucolic song you'd expect
from a romantic Italian movie of the fifties.
"Color of Water," meanwhile, opens with a cheery, nearly Southern acoustic
trot before descending into a wistful, pedal steel-infused mood straight out
of Neil Young's Harvest Moon. "Well, I was all geared up and ready to
go," Matt Ward croaks, soon harmonizing with a very Young-esque, high-pitched
backup for the line, "The color of the water was green." The remaining lyrics
overflow with imagery, as if Ward's only purpose is to prove the effectiveness
of his memory.
The past surfaces again, musically speaking, with "Half Moon," which opens
with either a sample or impressive replication of a Sarah Vaughn-like jazz
tune, led by what sounds like an oboe. But a thumping kickdrum and snare
combo fade in quickly, as do some quiet guitar squelches. Ward again seems to
be singing solely for the sake of remembering: "Felt a dark night/ No starlight
to light the room/ And no, no/ No, no/ No, no half moon." But he does so in
such a compelling, broken way-- admittedly, aided by vertiginous vocal
effects-- that listening to his non-story is by no means a tedious a
experience.
"So Much Water" is a rare, but unfortunate misstep. Both lyrically and
musically, it sounds like a song by that college kid in the subway station--
the one in Diesel jeans boisterously strumming his acoustic guitar and
pretending he's homeless. As earlier, "Bad Dreams" opens with a scratchy jazz
intro, but this time restrained feedback clears the palette for a listless
number in which Ward, his voice at it's crackling worst-- cough up that
phlegm, dammit!-- sings, "Oh, every night I dreaming of you/ We're weaving
through a crowded room/ I asked you to be my best friend, too/ And then I
lose ya." No, he doesn't forget ever, it seems.
But he rebounds soon enough with "Silverline," which is largely responsible
for the comparisons made between Ward and the influential, iconoclastic folk
guitarist John Fahey, who died earlier this year. The blues-style track is a
scorching, 12-string romp with subtle horns and deft guitarwork that's so
aggressive as to make the listener imagine the ceaselessly vibrating strings
being thwacked, pulled, and otherwise tweaked in a blurring manner. Although
it's not nearly as irreverent and genre-bending as most of Fahey's work, it
ends much too soon.
"Flaming Heart" holds the pace, opening with carnival-esque clanging in the
background. A bluesy electric guitar and hall piano ramble in, over which
Ward sings with a heretofore unseen alacrity. As if sensing that the raucous
mood is almost too much to bear, Ward slows it down for "Carolina." One of
the most straightforward tracks here, it opens with easy strumming and the
clearly delivered lines, "Oh, where are you going for the two-hundred and
fiftieth time?" Through a radio transistor, he responds, "Well, I'm waiting
for a sign." It's the neat, unexpected turn you'd expect from Mark Linkous,
and Ward keeps them coming throughout the song.
The comparison to Sparklehorse's lone creative force seems quite obvious, as
both Linkous and Ward are country- and folk-influenced artists who scratch
unavoidable, but nominally disruptive marks on the traditional blueprint. The
major difference, as epitomized by "From a Pirate Radio Sermon, 1989," is that
Ward's effects exhibit better production. Giant Sand's Howe Gelb-- a big
supporter of Ward's-- is another obvious signpost. Just listen to Ward's
breathless delivery and erratic changes on "Ella," which provides a piano
quietude similar to that which dominated Giant Sand's most recent effort,
last year's inimitable The Chore of Enchantment.
The seven-minute closer, "O'Brien/O'Brien's Nocturne," solidifies Ward's
singular voice-- both figuratively and literally. The first half is a
stripped-down folk story about how "O'Brien blew my mind." Alone, it would
have made for a great end, but it's improved upon with the instrumental second
half, which evolves from a soft electric guitar and distant rumblings into a
clear mix of thick and thin guitars, an urban drumbeat, and even some
well-placed handclaps. This is what makes Ward's recollections worth hearing:
in sound and word, he's intent on remembering the past, but he's too modern
to let it define him.
-Ryan Kearney