Selected Writing Through the Same... Push You Away How We Are Orbit / Bliss

The Word on Ward
Adam Ward leads with language

by Michelle Filgate
 

His voice fills the living room with a soothing intensity that makes my usual scattered thoughts come into a quick focus, as though his singing becomes binoculars into the recesses of the moment. Adam Ward stands next to a guitar-shaped lamp, his black hair slicked back into a ponytail, his facial expressions showing that he is riding on a musical high as he plays his guitar and sings the lyrics he wrote himself. We have just driven over from Cafe on the Corner in Dover after an interview so he can play some songs for me. I'm instantly caught up in the way he moves to his music, the way his body and voice and movements form a poetry that is so unique to talented musicians. And talented he certainly is.

It's no wonder. He comes from a musical family. Adam's father, David Ward, sings harmony on his CD with him, and played in a bluegrass band while Adam was growing up.

In addition to being a full-time senior psychology major at UNH, Adam finds time to be extremely involved in the local arts scene. His self-titled CD was released in 2003 and he has played at many local venues in the area, including Cafe on the Corner and at UNH. The New Hampshire Artist's Circle, formed last year, is a group he regularly participates in and works with to collaborate creatively on to bring local musicians and writers and visual artists together and give them a voice on campus.

He started writing his own songs in tenth grade and got more serious about it in the last couple of years. As a child he was entranced by the possibilities of seeing the world that music offered him.

"I sang along happily, mimicking the tone of the horn as I spun faster and faster. My heel always hit the floor as the downbeat of each pulse of sound was generated and transmitted. Controlled only by the beat, and wishing to run and twist faster, I was forced to run twice as fast, now taking eight steps per measure. Never, ever, could I run out of time. I could not break the rhythm, I could not breach contract with beat. I was hypnotized by all the wonder of art in motion and sound. The object, the phonograph, the lyrics, the rhythm, and the ceiling and my mind and soul all blended into one perfect entity. I tranced out into total complete elation." (From "Orbital Bliss", an essay he wrote)

Right after high school he became part of a cast of 150 people from all over the world that was a musical road show. The tour lasted for eleven months and covered the U.S., Canada, and Europe. Adam said that it was on this tour that he realized how much he loved playing music for people and traveling. This enthusiasm he has for the wonders of interaction is evident in the lyrics to one of his newest songs not on his CD, "Through the Same Things":

...exploring the truth of being alive and existing in a world that doesn't always make that easy.

"I am surrounded by people
Some I know so well
Some I’ve only seen your face this one time
I thought we were so different from each other
I met some people who are very different from me

People love people laugh people shout people sing
People arrange themselves in the strangest of ways
People jump up and down for a touchdown
People shout out loud when the band plays Dark Star
People find a way to get together and celebrate"

I had seen Adam around campus many times but had never really had a conversation with him about his music before I sat down to interview him recently. He was animated in a quiet way while talking to me, giving off a shyly confident vibe which was intriguing.

When I put the above song into my CD player to listen, I was surprised to hear the bouncy melody and how catchy the tune was. The song demonstrates to me how eclectic his music is, because some of his earlier songs are more lyrical and slow. His words, though simple, have a mesmerizing quality that make me want to listen to the tracks multiple times, and that's exactly what I did. It's evidence of a good musician when you re-play the same tunes over and over.

All of his songs have a quality of exploring the truth of being alive and existing in a world that doesn't always make that easy. His lyrics explore individualism and collectiveness.

"You'll always be a shining star, sometimes we realize how we are" ("How We Are").

They also touch on heartaches and memories in a simple but meaningful way.

"The object, the phonograph, the lyrics, the rhythm, and the ceiling and my mind and soul all blended into one perfect entity."

"How do I peel back the layers
of a tarnished heart
Dig through swamps with a
dirty rusty shovel
Welcome skeletons
out of the closet
And I say when she says maybe
You better say stop
And when she says stop
then you better say maybe
When she says maybe
you better say
Please don't push me away." ("Push You Away")

There is a persistance to his words that ring true and seem familiar and comforting like words from a close friend.

Some musicians that are poets through their lyrics alone, and others that make an amazing collaboration between the music and the lyrics so that the two together are the most powerful. This is how Adam's music is. It's a blend of two of the highest forms of art, audio sound and visual sound, that makes his music appealing.

Adam will be playing at Dartmouth College and the Tin Palace soon. If you'd like to be added to his mailing list, email him at myarmisglowing@hotmail.com. For more information on his CD, visit his website, www.cdbaby.com/adamward.

Through the Same Things      [ Listen to this song! (.mp3) ]

I am surrounded by people
Some I know so well 
Some I've only seen your face this one time
I thought we were so different from each other
I met some people who are very different from me

People love people laugh people shout people sing
People arrange themselves in the strangest of ways
People jump up and down for a touchdown
People shout out loud when the band plays Dark Star
People find a way to get together and celebrate

Chorus-
It makes me smile to know that we're all going through the same things
It makes me smile to know that we're all going through the same things
And I say woah-oh-oh shoo be do be da da
Woah-oh-oh shoo be do be da da 
Woah-oh-oh
We're all going through the same things

People cry people moan people sigh people waste their time on those little things
I hope that which brings you down will never get in the way of your dreams
If you've never danced circles 'round the sun, well get on up and get on down
Get on down street and shake your thing to the (be bop sho be do da da….)

Chorus

Oh in all he people that I meet 
Oh the differences are only skin deep
We are all the same

Chorus

We're all the same 
We're all the same
We're all the same
We're all the same

Push You Away        [ Listen to this song! (.mp3) ]

She interrupted my dreams
with a blast of seemingly 
pure love energy
We danced and sang,
connected in so many ways
But she can build walls
faster than me

So come toy with my emotions
I know you're always so proud
to be in control
Let me touch you a little bit
Bite my neck a thousand times
but never ever kiss my lips

"Am I possessed by the devil?"
she asks me
"People are scared of me but they
don't know who I am inside
Let me sleep with you and 
tell me all your fears
And then tomorrow,
I'll push you away
As if you never knew me"

She's a piece of work in progress
And she's been sculpted
by a dirty old man
Locked her away when
she was just 13
But there's just
something about that

And it's the worst when she
ignores me
Drives me to drink a case of
Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer
I cannot speak I cannot think
I cannot dream and
I cannot function
But there's a part of me that's 
always liked the darker side of life

"Am I possessed by the devil?" 
she asks me
"People hate me but 
they don't know who I am inside
Let me sleep with you and 
tell me all your fears
And then tomorrow,
I'll push you away
As if you never knew me"

How do I peel back the layers
of a tarnished heart
Dig through swamps with a 
dirty rusty shovel
Welcome skeletons
out of the closet
And I say when she says maybe
you better say stop
And when she says stop
then you better say maybe
When she says maybe
you better say
Please don't push me away

No I won't do it
Yes I won't do it
no yes no yes no

How We Are        [ Listen to this song! (.mp3) ]

Pick up game of basketball
Little boy tries to find the rim
but somehow he can't make it
time moves by faster
than you planned
trying to find a job
in a one horse town
is harder than you dreamed
when you were younger

I'm no better or worse than you
at anything i may try to do
in the eyes of someone 
who sees things how they are
Thank you
for everything you give
Sometimes we realize how we are

My friend Matt's a millionaire
He built a mansion on a hill
but somehow he ain't happy
money's not everything he owns
a heart of gold is buried
deep down inside a rich old man
who's lonely

You'll always be a shining star
Sometimes we realize how we are

As a very young child every object and action seemed new, fresh, even invigorating. Children live in their subconscious mind; the land of imagination. Every object evokes mood, as though thoughts, feelings, emotions are being emitted. Before a child's critical mind is formed he can tap into the emotional essence of things quite easily. I knew there was magic in the living room at a very young age. It is such a feeling that it is difficult to use this language to portray it, but I will try. I can describe it only as vibrant, sweeping ocean waves of color and feeling in sound. I knew this room was filled with a mood that is scarcely present in silence. Sounds could move in color or in black and white, fully orchestrated or quietly strummed. It didn't take me long to realize that these invisible vibrations had a source, and at the age of four I knew I loved the phonograph. I knew I loved the language of music.

As a small boy starting as long ago as I could remember I performed a daily morning ritual. At approximately 6:50 every morning I would rise from bed, still in pajamas. It didn't take much to get me up. There would be absolutely no sleeping in. I jumped up, ran barefoot from my room through the long second floor hallway and down the stairs, which curved around to the right at the end. Some days I would slide down the railing, although I was often scolded for doing this. I could feel cold stone against my bare feet as I ran tiptoed into the slate-floored foyer of the first floor. The living room was in front of me now, with its gray carpet slightly stained with soda, with its pencil sketch of my late grandmother, neatly framed above the loveseat. With its tacky dark orange curtains, and its mustard colored recliner, which was my grandfathers before he passed away, the living room was a central place in my life then. This space was my favorite place because it was often filled with sound waves; creating invisible yet infinitely uplifting ambiances.

It was in this place that it sat on its throne. Majestic and proud, it lay centered between the TV and the bookshelf, on a stand created especially for its kind. It was silver and Magnavox. There were several giant knobs on its front face. Many of them were useless, I decided. The biggest knob was of great importance, that for sure I knew, for I had turned it to satisfying results. The farther I rotated it, the louder, fuller, more intense the vibrations would become. Another important switch on the front was the "chipmunk dial", which worked wonders. Whenever it was hit down, it would transform even Tom Waits low bellowing growl into Alvin and the Chipmunks vocal relay race; very high, squeaky, and speedy. (Later in life I learned that this was the speed setting switch, used to play 45s, a smaller record used to record shorter samples of sound, and also that the Chipmunks voices were in fact produced in this very manner.) There was also a tape deck on the front face of the unit, but this was rarely used. Cassettes, my father would say, are for the car. The clear plastic case, which protected the rod, arm, needle and rotation table, was usually a bit dusty, and cracked in one place. Some days I'd have to remove this before beginning my ritual. On other days it would already be discarded to its place on the floor, standing on its side next to the TV. I suppose there was a time before the hinge on the back of this cover broke, a time when it could just rise with so much as a touch, and then fall slowly back down again, but these days were before my time.

To the right of the record player was a dark wooden bookshelf, and a cabinet in the very bottom of it was the home to hundreds of large, black flat, discs. They were cased in worn, colorful cardboard jackets, each with its own personality and character. Joyful anticipation raced through my heart each time I opened the friendly gates to their home. It was as though sparks of possibility were just flying out of the open portal. Here there was a vast selection of sounds to choose from, but most mornings I would begin with the traditional bluegrass of my father's tastes, something I was raised on. "Doc Watson in Nashville", a collection of sparse, rootsy flatpicking tunes, would more often than not be my first choice. Its cardboard cover was white and fuzzy around the edges, and due to its heavy rotation, it almost always jutted out just a bit farther than the other records. The cover featured a priceless photo of Doc sitting in front of a large pile of poker chips, cowboy hat on, eyes closed. My father had told me he is blind. I remember feeling terrible remorse.

As I lifted the plate out if its worn cardboard jacket, it would glitter black and shiny. I approached the machine with few steps. Now came the hard part. I had to get the proud metal rod in the middle of the machine to line up with the tiny hole in the center of the record and drop it on for rotation. I was no professional at this task, but was clearly getting better with every try. My mom would always say, "be careful with the records" but I did scratch the records often (much to my fathers annoyance). I would fool myself into thinking I was the one who was most careful with his collection, and that almost all of those scratches came from my dad, but of course, I was the one who was famous for missing the hole and producing little lines on disc's faces. Don't get me wrong. I never threw them like frisbees. (That would come later in my childhood.) I was very careful, although unskillful. There were some times when I accidentally dropped the records on the floor, and perhaps several dozen instances when an album fell out of it's jacket while I was transporting it out of it's home in the cabinet. Some of the cardboard casings were worn through completely, so that the disc could fall out either side of the jacket. This could take me by surprise. Consequently, I could see all the tiny scratches and some larger thicker ones too, but most of the sound would still come through if not without a crackle and "pip" here and there. I would always hear 5 seconds or so of this "worn vinyl noise" as the vibrations began to emit. It sounded gentle, familiar and fuzzy at the beginning of each side. As the song began I would do something that may seem strange to the average person, but to me at the time, it was the only thing to do. I would find a round object, or one that felt comfortable to my hand, perhaps a bottle cap, with tiny sharp edges, or a round smooth egg snuck secretly from the refrigerator. As the sounds began emitting from the two proud speakers, I would walk around the room in a circle repeatedly while rotating the object in my hand. My path would bring me close to the coffee table, love seat, and record table, but I would never touch any of these once the rotations began. Here I would listen in orbit. Here I would listen directly. Here I would close my eyes to see.

It was in this place that I discovered melody, rhythm, and emotion. The speed of my hand rotations and the circumference of my body orbits would vary with the form and feel of the tunes. Gritty blues vocals, off kilter instrumentation or odd time signatures would cause my hands to dig down deeper into the object of the morning, in an attempt to feel the meaning of what was being inferred. Set to these sounds, my otherwise steady clockwise march would be punctuated with sudden jilted steps backwards.

On the other hand, set to breezy, easy, carefree resonance the living room would light up and sing with vibrancy and perfect soaring harmony. Rosenshantz's "Tickles You" album usually had this effect, and this album was often my second choice of the morning. Couches and chairs breathed easy. Curtains cheered up and changed from turd color to the color of brilliant rays of sunshine. My shuffle-step march was transformed into light-footed skipping, gone were the random awkward steps back, and no longer did I have to dig my hand in quite as hard. My fingers were only lightly touching what I was holding, but somehow the object never fell from my arms. It soared right along with me. As I spun and shuddered, I became a bit dizzy. But this felt great at the time, and as I continued I began to melt into total relaxation. A trombone line particularly fascinated me as its resonance extended into the forefront. I sang along happily, mimicking the tone of the horn as I spun faster and faster. My heel always hit the floor as the downbeat of each pulse of sound was generated and transmitted. Controlled only by the beat, and wishing to run and twist faster, I was forced to run twice as fast, now taking eight steps per measure. Never, ever, could I run out of time. I could not break the rhythm, I could not breach contract with beat. I was hypnotized by all the wonder of art in motion and sound. The object, the phonograph, the lyrics, the rhythm, and the ceiling and my mind and soul all blended into one perfect entity. I tranced out into total complete elation. It was a child's first achievement of musical bliss.