| I used to have an ongoing little
email thingy with Ward...back before he became as acclaimed as I said he was before he was
acclaimed! I am happy for his success though, he was one of the few true ones. Of Sweat and Sweet, Sweet Music This is the second review of this sort that has emerged from listening to M. Ward’s work. The last, a summer’s paean to the lost daydreams of youth and the death of an old amusement park in reverence for Ward’s Duet for Guitar’s #2, never turned up on these pages. Maybe someday, but for now Ward’s latest, End of Amnesia, has caught me off guard once again and has swallowed me into its weird and poetic ways. Sometimes this is what music as art is supposed to do to a fellow - absorb him. As they say out in Hancock County, one good pig can usually make another squeal. A truly wonderful little record. - KH It’s hot. Midwest August hot. Somewhere someone’s grandpappy is sittin’ on a porch listening to baseball. "It ain’t the heat that gits ya’, it’s the humidity." Proud of himself, proud of his team. His grass turned dusty brown, all infield, and no outfield left to speak of. Heavy and warm wet rags draped across your shoulders – sure is humid. Everything moves slowly. Dormant. - Take her easy there fellow. A
mans got to move easy in this weather. Dormant. Water disappears, going from futile sprinklers into the soupy air. So much water. Moving on, slowly, hearing sounds that can only be the heat coming off of the asphalt. M. Ward plays on the breeze. A rare, gentle barely perceptible zephyr, riding across damp skin. Moving slow. "Color of Water" whispers. Cools. An acoustic daydream. A galvanized steel half-barrel sweats as it struggles to hold ten-times its weight in ice and beer. Makes a fellow want to just jump in there. Bet it feels so good. Just to put a toe in her. Long, slow glances at the tears streaking down the sides. - You wanna beer there friend? Cold. So cold. Wiping the can across the forehead. "Water / so much water’s under the bridge." M. Ward sing to you, for himself. So cooling, so slowly. Like the river rushing around your ankles. Sure is hot today. Throwing the empty aluminum can across the river. Splashing, then rushing off under many bridges. Carrying shoes, leaving the river, feeling the beer soothe the tepidity of late day. It’s barely two p.m. Even the watchband feels too heavy for a day like this. Down past the schoolyard. Kids hitting balls with a bat. Slow, no longer excited. It’s getting too hot. Screen doors invite the outside in, yearning for some sort of relief. At least it’s shady in there. A piano comes from a porch. A piano comes from your head. A "Flaming Heart" still burns…what is that song? Looking to the porch. Wondering toward the sounds. Up the porch steps. A little girl inside, Sunday dress on, sitting on a bench, hands curled over the keys. - Can I help you mister? (Who me?)
‘Scuse me Mister, but you are on our porch, can I help you? Moving along to the sound of an acoustic guitar that isn’t playing anywhere nearby. Playing somewhere, and it’s sure to be cooler there. Beautiful, beautiful guitar. Easy guitar – "From A Pirate Radio" indeed! The only place it can be. "Yours won’t be yours anymore / theirs won’t be theirs anymore". Turning down a street for its shade. Big old oak trees. Mossy grounds. Why isn’t everyone here? Under these trees? Branches reaching up to the sun and scolding her heat. And the guitars still play their sermon, 1989. A hot summer. But not hotter than this one, no way. Sitting on a pretty lawn. Still green under caring trees. Feels cool…oh so cool. Drifting away, still hearing the guitars lulling contentment. In every perspiring drop. Dormant. It could have been a moment, or a thousand years. Hidden away from the heat. Dreams of a man, his voice aching, whispering, singing on the breeze. Broken voiced. Singing toasts to broken lives. Broken because living always is. Floating, drifting along to the sighing voice. End of Amnesia. Dormant. It was easy to forget the heat...for a moment. |