September 9, 2005 at the Ford Amphitheatre, Hollywood

A typical summer night in Los Angeles has descended upon us as we waited out front the ominous, palatial-looking Ford Amphitheatre. A smoggish mist encircled the venue mysteriously as we heaved open the great wooden doors and stumbled down the dark aisles to our seats. Although it was an outdoor theatre, there was a very intimate element to the place that made it the absolute perfect setting for a performer like M. Ward.
    For those of you who have not yet had the pleasure of listening to M. Ward, he is not really someone you can equate to another easily. Elements of certain genres and performers have definitely contributed to his own personal style, yet it is difficult to pinpoint of what exactly he reminds you. Once in a drunken discussion, I described him as the musical lovechild of Nick Drake and Sam Beam (Iron & Wine) as raised by Tom Waits, with a splash of Scott Joplin ragtime cleanliness. Do what you will with that. Regardless, his on stage persona was far more intricate than said description does any justice. The quiet, enigmatic gentleman walked quietly onto the stage, donning a brow-shadowing cap and a guitar, and opened the show with the finest finger picking I had seen in years. Mercilessly he plucked the hell out of the strings, to the degree where it was nearly unbearable yet still enjoyable. We were awarded no lyrics as he warmed up his hands carefully, displaying rather adequately his John Fahey influence. As the warm up song came to a close, Ward revealed his experimental curiosity with the amp pedals. This was to become a phenomenon he would toy with throughout the show, much to the dismay of some of the onlookers. I was actually intrigued by the way he played with looping and reverb, admiring his bravery to fiddle and figure out what could further his capabilities as a live performer.
    On that note, there were a few very key elements that made this show not only unique, but also fascinating. Ward had two microphones positioned near his mouth, one into which he sang, and the other into which he played his harmonica. However, the harp mic was so heavily reverberated that the harmonica echoed eerily throughout the amphitheatre, bouncing about as he picked away at his modest guitar. He would also switch to his piano at times, also miked at a very high volume, and when he would perform his classily constructed piano songs, he would lean out dramatically and sweep with his arms, almost animating his lyrics. It was truly interesting, not quite dancing but more of a physical description of what he was trying to say as he sang. Occasionally he would peek from behind the great hat over his eyes and thank us in that strange, distinctive, almost comically raspy voice of his. We would gaze at one another curiously, wondering if that could seriously be his actual speaking voice. He was a unique one, alright, yet it made the setting and the show all the more charming.
    The finest moment came deep into the show, as he embarked upon his most interestingly worded “O’Brien’s Nocturne” off his album End of Amnesia. The cryptic tune was about a mysterious old friend with remarkable guitar-playing capabilities. I suppose that tune tied with the encore, an absolutely gorgeous cover of David Bowie’s rather cheesy “Let’s Dance.” He turned the dance rock ditty into a sensual, velvety proposition and sent us on our way entranced, enveloped in the misty evening, perhaps thirty years prior to when we came. The show was stunning, mysterious, soft-spoken and simple, much like M. Ward himself.

For more information on the singer/songwriter, check out Magnet’s July/August 2005 issue (No. 68). References: Article: “The Simple Life” by Jonathan Valania

-Christina Gubala