M. Ward’s melodies are as quietly pervasive as cigarette smoke in a bar (ah, the days of É last month). His voice sneaks through the back door while you’re ordering the cheapest beer on tap, and the next thing you know you’re singing his songs while driving to work the next day. In other words, he’s compelling even when you’re not paying attention. It’s the gritty, percussive guitar that sticks first. The blues riffs next. Then the raspy voice that sounds like its owner needs some NyQuil–until he croons a sweet falsetto. 1601 University Ave., St. Paul; 651-647-0486; www.turfclub.net
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