He Only Sings When He’s Sad

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M. Ward at Noon+Cafe (Osaka)

It must have been around the time my journalism instructor in undergrad was giving a brief lecture on the importance of not beginning your news article with “it” that I first came across M. Ward’s music. All 2:38 of “Vincent O’ Brien” grabbed my entire conscience and I was immediately drawn into the warmth of not only Ward’s voice, but the entirety of his production, a sound not unlike many others, but one all his own. A challenging task for any artist: Draw from your influences while spinning your own spin. 

Since that first introduction to M. Ward’s catalogue in the early 2000s, I have continued to enjoy his music. I was lucky enough to see him open for Bright Eyes on their Lifted tour in 2002. In 2004, I saw him perform with Conor Oberst and Jim James on their “Monsters of Folk” tour (the three later formed Monsters of Folk and released a pretty great record in 2009). Other memories of M. Ward’s music includes hearing one or two of his tracks from Post-War at my good friend’s wedding reception in 2007 and recently rediscovering his 2009 release Hold Time thanks to the abundant used CD market in Japan. In short, M. Ward has been a memorable part of my musical conscience for the better part of two decades.

M. Ward telling stories

When I found out he was touring Japan this spring in support of For Beginners: The Best of M. Ward, it was a no-brainer to secure tickets to his Noon+Cafe performance in Osaka. My wife Airi and I arrive at Noon+Cafe a bit early as we had a hunch we could snag a place to sit. Our prediction was correct and we found two seats stage-left/middle-back; roughly 10 metres from the cozily lit stage. Noon+Cafe is intimate, as perhaps the name suggests, and immediately upon entering it felt like the absolutely ideal place to see an artist such as M. Ward. It is dark with no frills, a faint smell of lingering tobacco from years gone by, and a small staircase stage-left, leading up to the green room where M. Ward awaited his entry to the 80 or so in attendance. Before M. Ward took the stage, a bottle of red wine with its cork patiently resting on top was placed on a table across from M. Ward’s patiently awaiting Martin. An announcement was made that taking video would be prohibited, but that it would be ok to take flash-free photographs. There would also only be one set and M. Ward would also be available to sign vinyl records and other items after the performance. 

M. Ward exits stage left

With all housekeeping items out of the way, we were left to wait just a few more minutes before M. Ward emerged from the attic, grabbed his guitar and eased us into his world with two guitar-only songs, one of them being “Duet for Guitars #3” from Transfiguration of Vincent. Now, here is where I must refer to  the importance and absolute beauty of M. Ward’s sound. As soon as the guitar reverberated from the amp and began to fill the room, we were transported into the M. Ward sound that he has so masterfully executed throughout his catalog. Some may call it warm, others may call it analog gold, or sepia-toned-Americana-folk-blues; an inimitable ambience. It is quite difficult to put into words what exact tones M. Ward assembles from his guitar and amplifier and perhaps even unnecessary, but rare it is to hear an artist perform a selection of songs from their catalog in the way M. Ward did at the Noon+Cafe. He not only masterfully represented the sound of his recorded work in the live setting, but also recreated it in a way that gave the songs this entire new life; a life only for those lucky enough in attendance to hear. Ward treated us to nearly 90 minutes of these recreations, which included gratitude filled stage banter, two encores and a multitude of live looping his guitar to magnetically fill the room.

Was I disappointed he didn’t play the aforementioned song that led me to M. Ward fandom for all these years? Well, maybe a tad, but in the end I was won over just as much as hearing his music for the very first time.

Promotional poster on cafe door

I Already Know What the Next Song Will Be

WEEZER

Zepp Bayside Osaka

Tuesday, January 7, 2025

19:00-20:40

This past winter, I finally got a chance to see the celebrated rock band Weezer perform live. The concert began promptly at 7pm, like a movie in the theatre, but without the popcorn and dimly lit aisles. Their entire performance clocked it at around one hour and 40 minutes.

Before attending the show I did not check their previous show setlists. I prefer being surprised by what a live act will do on any given night. I knew that Weezer had recently wrapped up a tour in the United States which celebrated the 30th anniversary of their classic debut Blue Album. On the American tour, the band played said record in its entirety (and presumably in order). In Osaka, it was a mystery if this was on their agenda. The show began with a smattering of non-Blue Album radio hits, which included the likes of "Beverly Hills" (Make Believe - 2005), "Island in the Sun" and "Hash Pipe" (Green Album - 2001) and even the college-radio-hit “You Gave Your Love To Me Softly” (Angus Soundtrack - 1995). Weezer then launched into a series of songs from their much-loved, but not at the time critically-adored, but now heavily-lauded, sophomore album, Pinkerton. They played "Across the Sea", "Getchoo" "Pink Triangle" and one or two others. Still no sign of the Blue Album. Enter a short intermission and a clothing change. After an announcement from frontman Rivers Cuomo that they were about to enter the Blue Universe it was apparent what the next 40 minutes would entail: The Blue Album played front to back, sequentially and with very minimal (if any) stage banter in between.

And this brings me to my key observation and question: Is hearing a legendary album played live sequentially an exciting and/or overall good experience? Subjective of course, but aren’t most essays? I argue that while it was most excellent to hear every song on The Blue Album performed live, knowing that they were playing it in order and without much interruption or anticipation was surprisingly a little awkward and an oh-so-slight, well, almost, dare I say, letdown. That may be a harsh critique, I understand. Clearly a lot of these album anniversary tours are geared to do just that: Rehash a memory of 20 plus years ago, tantalizing our collective amygdala, as we sing-a-long in an irreversible bliss of nostalgia. However, there is zero element of surprise when an artist/band/musician plays an entire album in its entirety in its recorded order.  No one leaves the concert saying to their friends, “I cannot believe they played the near-eight-minute closing song ‘Only in Dreams’”! It took a bit of the mystery and wonder away from what a live show has the potential to be, and nearly made it feel like watching a movie for the third time. Still entertaining, but you know exactly what is going to happen.

Before the Phones Told Us Where to Go

“Before the phones told us where to go” - a line from John K. Samson’s “Oldest Oak at Brookside” (Winter Wheat, 2016) is a line I often ponder while roaming countless city blocks attempting to stop time in rectangular fashion. As the line repeats in my head while I snap the shutter release, I also ponder the following questions: Is life better now that we are constantly connected and no longer have to Magellan our way around the world? What role, if any, does photography play in navigation? I attempt to answer these questions and more in this short-ish essay.

So what exactly was life like before following the blue dot on Google Maps? Well, maybe it was not that much different. Perhaps the better question is what was navigation like before the internet? Or before maps even? Just how did the Polynesians discover the Hawaiian islands anyway? Luck? The stars? A bit of both? I do not have the resources to answer those questions at the moment, so will stick to a brief story of the Hostel Treasure Map, a term coined in the Fall of 2009 while backpacking around Japan and Korea.

I was in Kyoto in the autumn of 2009, solo traveling with a North Face slingshot backpack that fit everything including a mini-laptop (barely; bursting at the seams, but it worked).  I had a hostel booked, was wide-eyed, and thrilled to be back in Japan after a five day mini-adventure in Korea. On the bullet train from Hiroshima, I glanced at my printed out directions and they read something along the lines of: 

“Take the north exit from JR Kyoto Station and hop on the No. 12 bus. Ride that bus for roughly 20 minutes in a counter-clockwise direction. After about 20 minutes, get off the bus and walk north for 10 minutes. The hostel will be on your left.” 

Huh!? All the best finding that hostel. I ended up not following those directions as I arrived at Kyoto station later than expected. The hostel’s website stated that you could not check in past 8pm, which at the time made absolutely no sense. I did not have access to the internet on the fly to confirm such potential rumours. Thus, I hopped in a taxi and with my completely elementary Japanese somehow communicated to the driver to take me to said hostel. Point being: somehow I  survived and relied on other navigation/survival skills to traverse around the globe before the phones told us where to go. And perhaps it was all a little more adventurous. 

In pre-smartphone era Japan, I would take photographs of key intersections on my deck-of-card-sized point-and-shoot so I could retrace my steps back to the hostel. This often worked quite well and also gave me some decent photographs to sift through at the end of the travels. But,  not now! What are we doing now to navigate unchartered territory? Of course, you know the answer. Our phones are telling us where to go, which is all well and fine, incredibly convenient, and comforting, especially in places where we may not speak the language. Additionally,  I have been able to get to many places with minimal effort because of this 5g-connected rectangle in my pocket. So much now that I rarely think twice before leaving the house of how to get to where I am going. A safety blanket for the ages. 

So is life better now that we are constantly connected? A brief saunter around Shinsaibashi and Amemura in Osaka recently had me thinking perhaps not always. I could not help but notice many tourists with a phone in hand, likely following the blue dot from destination to destination. And this is nothing new, but it got me thinking that it may be kind of fun to leave the house again someday without the connectivity and just simply go with the flow.

A Somewhat Pricey Click of the Shutter

I am trying not to obsess about it. I really am trying not to obsess about it. Truly. But, my camera broke yesterday. It fell while attached to a tripod from atop a pile of books which were admittedly somewhat haphazardly placed atop a height-adjustable coffee table - one metre max. I was attempting to photograph my CD collection one by one and HAD to get the height just right; attempting perfection, which is truly impossible in this, or any, form of art. The light was admittedly not great, but flat, even and workable; overall decent. It was mostly overcast, which allowed for a soft afternoon light to fill my fifth floor home-office.  I snapped a test shot. It looked good, but I needed more height and perhaps better light. Why am I even attempting to photograph my record collection? More books added; these ones not as sturdy as the hefty Language Files 12, which guided me through my first graduate school class.

I added Sociolinguistics and Language Education to the makeshift table, and snapped another test shot. And when I went to adjust the CD on top of the recently purchased Kenwood CD player - BAM! A noise I was not expecting or wanting to hear. Camera down; sprawled on the floor in a most vulnerable position! All is well, I thought; everything still looks intact - screen is still ok, lens not impacted. Phew. But wait, where is the shutter button!? Where in the Sam Snead-Hell is the shutter button! A piece of copper staring up at me through a vacant hole instead of the round shutter release. Panic. Who? What? Where? When? Why? How? scream into my conscience. Ok, this really happened. I am aware of this now. My beloved image-producing rectangular box is broken. The sooner I can accept this the sooner I can take some sort of action to try and remedy the situation. Search the floor and make sure you find all the parts. Ok, there is the missing spring. Attempt to put it all back together. Not working. Panic again. Ok, what next? I cycle to the nearest camera store, a place that has kindly fixed my camera before, to get their input on the damage at hand. Turns out, they had never seen such a trauma to a camera before and informed me they unfortunately have no way of repairing it in the store. The only hope is to send it off to a third-party repair shop or perhaps even directly to Fujifilm. I do not catch everything he is explaining to me, but enough to understand that:

a) this could be pricey

b) it may take up to a month

c) there are no guarantees it can be replaced

I take a deep breath and ask the kind salesperson to please send it off for the attempted repair. He takes a quick inventory of all items they are sending: camera body, lens cap, camera strap, battery, and the broken shutter button parts. While waiting for him to process all the paperwork, I browse around the store - all the cameras sort of staring back at me saying things like "we are here if you need us, but we cost a pretty penny, so choose wisely." I see my current camera amongst the crowd - same make, model, color, condition, price. I am tempted to buy it right then and there. Forget asking my wife. I need a camera and I need it now. My identity depends on it. I don't buy the camera, but later check online at home to see if it is still available (obsessing about it), and find out it had been sold that afternoon. Ok, relax. There are plenty more, but not really. They are difficult to find. And expensive. Nearly double the price of what I paid back in 2019. In the meantime, I am trying to find someone or something to blame. Why did this have to happen? I made sure to take the utmost care of this camera - I cleaned it weekly, always kept a lens cap on and secured it in its travel pouch when not in use. Accept. Accept. Accept.

Two weeks pass and I am suffering withdrawals from not being able to make images I want to make. I have my smartphone camera, but it is not quite the same. Not nearly as fun. It just does not react to light and subjects the way I think it should. Ok, I’ll go  practice my golf game. Take my mind off of the camera for a while. My smartphone rings while I am practicing a different type of ridiculous shooting and I am greeted with the news from the camera store that since there are no more parts being made for this particular camera, it cannot be fixed. I am again heartbroken, but I accept it. And I can no longer concentrate on hitting that little white ball at arbitrary targets.

I decide to take action as having a camera such as this is important to me, to my vision as a photographer, and helps me to feel calm amidst the storm of craziness this world often has brewing. I notice online that the camera store has the exact same model as mine at one of their shops in Tokyo. I head back to the camera store to retrieve my unusable camera and ask the clerk to have this particular camera sent to Kobe so I can check it out. Two days later it arrives from Tokyo. I withdraw enough cash to pay for it on the spot because if it is in decent shape as the online photographs of it suggest, I will likely buy it. The photographs did not lie, as they often are incapable of doing, and after handing over the cash, I have my camera back. It’s back!

So what did I learn from this ordeal? Well, that this really was not that much of an ordeal. It is something that simply happened. I did not try to break my camera. I was using it to photograph my record collection and it happened to fall, break, and cost me a lot of money and stress in the process. Sure I could have been more careful when propping it on a stack of books. Sure I could have not even bothered taking photos that day. Surely this could have been prevented. But that is not living. And it will not deter me from taking photographs in the future. I just may think twice about using books as a makeshift tripod. Live. Learn. Let go. Move on.