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Duncan went out to see M Ward at the Manchester Academy in 29 June 2009.
>>>
Fisher of men.
If messrs Oberst, Ward and James are the new, new folk ratpack, then M Ward is the George Clooney of the bunch.
Guitar balancing off his hip, twinkle in his eye he exhales post orgasmically the most soulful of melodies before releasing the sort of shimmering guitar line that makes you feel like you're somebody's Dad at an Eric Clapton concert.
Having never previously witnessed Ward in action, he certainly has plenty in reserves to back this kind of confidence up. Song after song, it doesn't really matter which one he chooses to play as the audience continue to lap it up.
...And the band enjoy themselves though their concentration hardly drops to show it. Ward's shimmering guitar lines continue to build over the band revving like a truck, the momentum gathering with no chance of breaking down.
The band depart for a mournful solo version of Bowie's 'Lets Dance', a little awkward, as if practiced on a dusty summer Manchester pavement that afternoon... If the rendition struggles, then the charm is well practiced... Nothing woos the crowd like an ego flattering cover version of a cherished British icon. He's complimenting the badge on our collective jacket. The line's firmly in the water.
The band are back out and kicking along, the smile gets wider, the posturing more Vegas. I hear a guilty murmuring of 'cheese' from behind, they're obviously not a Clooney fan, one bouncing drum fill and a wink of an eye and I'm reeled back in.
We're in the boat, he's whacked us on the head with a couple more from the back catalogue, we're done for by the time 'Magic Trick' is over, it really doesn't matter what comes next, heck, even an encore of some old time rhythm and blues. Beethoven rolls over and he's gone, and left me with the only thing left to ponder... does he smiles as much on record as he does when performing. I'm smiling, I guess that's what's important.
>>>
Fisher of men.
If messrs Oberst, Ward and James are the new, new folk ratpack, then M Ward is the George Clooney of the bunch.
Guitar balancing off his hip, twinkle in his eye he exhales post orgasmically the most soulful of melodies before releasing the sort of shimmering guitar line that makes you feel like you're somebody's Dad at an Eric Clapton concert.
Having never previously witnessed Ward in action, he certainly has plenty in reserves to back this kind of confidence up. Song after song, it doesn't really matter which one he chooses to play as the audience continue to lap it up.
...And the band enjoy themselves though their concentration hardly drops to show it. Ward's shimmering guitar lines continue to build over the band revving like a truck, the momentum gathering with no chance of breaking down.
The band depart for a mournful solo version of Bowie's 'Lets Dance', a little awkward, as if practiced on a dusty summer Manchester pavement that afternoon... If the rendition struggles, then the charm is well practiced... Nothing woos the crowd like an ego flattering cover version of a cherished British icon. He's complimenting the badge on our collective jacket. The line's firmly in the water.
The band are back out and kicking along, the smile gets wider, the posturing more Vegas. I hear a guilty murmuring of 'cheese' from behind, they're obviously not a Clooney fan, one bouncing drum fill and a wink of an eye and I'm reeled back in.
We're in the boat, he's whacked us on the head with a couple more from the back catalogue, we're done for by the time 'Magic Trick' is over, it really doesn't matter what comes next, heck, even an encore of some old time rhythm and blues. Beethoven rolls over and he's gone, and left me with the only thing left to ponder... does he smiles as much on record as he does when performing. I'm smiling, I guess that's what's important.
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