As one might expect from an album called End of Amnesia, a dateless aura exists within, as if it could have been recorded 100 years ago or 100 years from now. Portland, Oregon, resident Matt Ward's often captivating sophomore CD fuses a bucolic folk sound with a postmodern lo-fi sensibility. Ward's intriguing tunes are sung in hushed tones, and his fragile voice has an offbeat beauty even when he whispers. The atmosphere here is stark and mostly acoustic (save for "Flaming Heart," an odd little rock rave-up that appears midway, like an intermission), and an eerie calm pervades the album. Ward's music features deft, poised guitar playing, vivid lyrical imagery, and melodies that burrow into your brain--as if they'd been there all along. --Marc Greilsamer
Review by Stanton Swihart
M.Ward's second solo enterprise verifies the artist as one of those few songwriters who stand between the cracks of time, where he spins a hallucinatory, new universe out of old-world roots. Indeed, there's a real down-home, unpolished luster to End of Amnesia, both in execution and in songwriting, that gives it a timeless, old-fashioned pallor. And yet there's also something just slightly off in the songs, a strange, disembodied quality that seems to come at least partly from an ulterior place, be it real or imagined. That attribute is precisely what gives the music such a singular, distinctive sound and vision. Ward comes off like a sort of one-man the Band with nothing but a beat-up guitar and his sepia croak of a voice. His acoustic guitar playing has the kind of impressive, gutsy virtuosity of Stephen Stills, while the music is part folk-blues a la Townes Van Zandt and part deep Appalachian pallidness, with a dash of Tin Pan Alley thrown in via the odd foot stomp or honky tonk piano run. Musicianship is superb, and as stark as the instrumentation is, there is first and foremost a special quality of songwriting that results in acoustic instrumentals (the drone-like title track, the wistful "Psalm") or nearly instrumental ballads (the gauzy, sunlike picking of "Color of Water"). The songs can be unsparing in their desolation, sound-wise if not necessarily in their worldview, although there is certainly a sense of loss present throughout. One gets the feeling, however, that the mood is less a product of a personal feeling than it is a personal perspective of a vanishing era of song, one free of commercial constraint, marketing, or trend. And yet the songs aren't long glances backward so much as they are outgrowths, seedlings from a great old uprooted tree trying to recapture some of the biblical grandeur that has wilted away, some of the lost importance, trying to refill a shadow that's no longer there. The album is a keeper, pure, simple, and unaffected but certainly not unaffecting.
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
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