To suggest that Matt Ward’s guitar functions as an extension of his physical body is, at this point, a derisory method of describing his live performances. However, to say that Matt Ward is capable of effectively transforming his entire audience into a personal and emotional instrument; that they laugh, cry, and breathe as he would if he were living the songs instead of playing them, imparts a much more accurate understanding of his uncanny command of the stage. Even appearing alone, his hat pulled firmly over both eyes in characteristic, unassuming fashion, M.Ward is able to persuade his spectators into a palpable, eager rapport with his music.

This is likely made possible by his possession of such a deceptively unobtrusive live presence. At Bimbo’s in San Francisco, not even the stage lights are turned up to announce his sudden entrance. Rather, M.Ward springs onto stage while remaining in a curiously intimate darkness, introducing himself by playfully fingering his way through an impressive, lengthy guitar solo. He churns out three songs, including a haunting rendition of “Carolina” on grand piano, before he directly addresses the audience for the first time. It works for him, though. He has successfully prioritized the attention of his viewers: music first, everything else second.

The show quickly reveals itself to be an education on the artist; a comprehensive cross-section of an impressive musical catalogue. M.Ward plays everything as though it has just occurred to him, meandering skillfully through the opening guitar riff for “Color Of Water” before seamlessly shifting into Transfiguration of Vincent’s “Sad, Sad Song”. A cover of James Brown’s “I Found Someone”, performed in tribute to the deceased singer, fades quietly into the suddenly ironic seeming “Undertaker”. He even throws in a homemade music video for his new single “Let’s Go Home” that is, in actuality, just a power-point slideshow comprised entirely of credits.

This sort of rambling wit begins to surface with increasing frequency as the night progresses, evidence less of M.Ward’s emergence from his musical cocoon than a drawing into it of his audience. The process peaks when he warmly proposes that a crowd member accompany him on piano for a performance of “Rollercoaster”. What follows is the successful completion of an elaborate musical ventriloquism. M.Ward, breezing through the song, soon turns the floor over to his newly acquired piano player. Said piano player begins a shuffling, nervous solo. The crowd — jubilant — cheers his efforts on. The pianist shyly begins to sing, an endeavor in which the entire audience soon joins in. Now in the periphery, M.Ward is left to his own devices. He loops a recording of the song’s primary guitar riff, deftly unplugs his instrument, and walks off the stage. He leaves behind a mess of people exuberantly carrying the show on without him, a testament to the charisma and endurance of, not the man, but the music itself.