the brevity thing
m. ward: sadly deprived of a full first name, he has soldiered bravely on into the indie music wilderness, teaming up with various other shining lights along the way - neko case, cat power, beth orton, norah jones (hmmm. the ladies like m.) howe gelb, conor oberst - and leaving a trail of creaky, weathered recordings behind. he’s a little like the forest gump of indie music: always lurking just over the shoulder of the one getting the press. also, i hear he runs like the wind.* in the heavens he is applauded by his similarly-afflicted brethren, o. henry, j. paul getty, and t. rex. down here he is applauded by me, for one. his music has a distinct, consistent flavor to it, and so music writers, half-crazed on espresso and jacked up on promotional materials, begin to babble about dust bowls, drawing rooms, lace, and sepia-toned photographs. eventually they have to be locked in a quiet room with recent eric clapton records until they slip into an adjective-depleted coma. for my money stanton swihart said it all best in a review of End of Amnesia, but most other writing on my man m. is along these same lines. i won’t even really step into it: i said creaky and weathered, didn’t i, and that already fails to measure up to the work. what i will say is that m. ward is destined to gather wider appreciation than he now enjoys.
*if the wind in your neighborhood is gentle, and would rather play complicated guitar.