Matt Pond has been releasing music for over 25 years now—either as Matt Pond PA or, briefly, with The Natural Lines—but very few moments among the 13 albums and nearly as many EPs that preceded it go quite as deep as his new LP, The Ballad of the Natural Lines. “I thought about time, about distance, about how much of ourselves we leave in the places we pass through,” he shares with us in his breakdown of the new project, as he implies the record’s themes of revisiting one’s past both literally—upon returning to his hometown—and mentally, alone at the wheel on tour or otherwise exploring the scenic roads of Upstate New York.
Pulled from these recollections is a broad narrative about toeing the line between falling and flying—a unifying theme for the rashness of youth and the chaotic nature of adult life. “I grew up believing in recklessness,” Pond explains. “For most of my life, it seemed like there was nothing that speed or fire couldn’t solve. I can’t count the number of fireworks that have blown up in my hand—both literally and figuratively. That belief has been overtaken by the strange concept of wanting to be a good person—of trying to like myself and the rest of the world, of full-on love. To me, that’s the most dangerous idea of all.”
The record is a continuation of the folk-rock balladry Pond first became known for in the mid-’00s, though undoubtedly with a similar maturity heard in these songs’ lush instrumentals as can be noted in the wisened lyrics. To take us a little bit deeper into these compositions, the songwriter broke The Ballad of the Natural Lines down track by track for us, expanding upon the ideas he was harnessing for each song. “You may already know what you think about the music without hearing it, or have some perception of who I am before you finish reading this,” he says. “That’s fine. But if there’s a gap in your mind where some of these thoughts and notes might slip through, that would be the dream.”
Check out his notes below, and stream the album here.
1. “The Ballad of the Natural Lines”
We used to drink Old Milwaukee in the Ompompanoosuc by Union Village Dam. We ran from every responsibility, blinding ourselves in the fading spring sun. We used to know how to stop time.
2. “Connecticut”
We can’t completely outrun our nature. Even though he’s not alive, I think I finally understand my father. He went to Yale, and I was considered one of the family’s failures for not following in his footsteps. My Connecticut is mindlessness and constant escape. I know every inch of the highway in that state—a map of beautiful mistakes denoted by city names: Hartford, Greenwich, New London, and New Haven.
3. “Those Wings”
“Those Wings” follows that thought from the ground, looking up. The music hit me without my guitar. I saw the shadow of a hawk in the road on my way to North-South Lake and started singing the first verse. Hope, suicidal ideation, and love—running through the same circuit. Along Escarpment Trail at North-South Lake, there are cliffs that look out over the valley. You stand on the edge and wonder if you’ll fall or fly.
4. “Goldie”
I rarely get to fall asleep in the afternoon, but it’s one of my favorite hobbies. In this liminal state, there’s so much to imagine. To understand the best parts of humanity, I believe we need to understand loneliness and death. Waking up with the lights on in the middle of the night, sleeplessness on a Sunday—these things terrify me. But I love driving a little too fast. I love lightning striking the building next door, cracking and shaking an electrified world.
5. “Clivia in the Living Room”
This was my first plant. I’d never kept anything alive other than myself. It blooms bright orange in the middle of winter. And it’s still alive.
6. “Little Signs”
This one is for all the eternal explorers seeking an everlasting connection; for the warm seasons and the burgeoning green; and for my sister, Piper, who used to shake her fist in front of her chest when captivated by her dreams—running through fields on a hillside in northern New Hampshire. Every single little sign saying “Yes!”
7. “Lost Languages”
This is where love peaks on the album. I can nearly accept myself in this song. Change, new languages, transformation—everything is possible within two minutes and 53 seconds.
8. “Musik Express”
We used to go to Old Orchard Beach in the summer. Hot trash in August. The smell of cotton candy, popcorn, and sea. The only amusement park ride I loved was the Musik Express. A fixed circle on a sloped track, a carousel for wannabe teenagers. They played the best music through those distorted speakers—Tom Petty, The Cars, The Pretenders. I wasn’t cool. But as long as the ride lasted, I felt cool.
9. “Sketch 9000”
When we finished our album as The Natural Lines, I wrote this trying to lift myself out of my head. Building motifs upon motifs, hoping that hope never ends.
10. “Korea”
I wrote “Korea” after collaborating with Chris [Hansen] to score footage of an American soldier overseas in 1959. There was an earnest openness to the film that struck me. It felt as though the camera was searching for something—yet at the same time, it was accepting, fully open to this world across the ocean. I thought about time, about distance, about how much of ourselves we leave in the places we pass through.
11. “Living Room Stage”
Our small lives play out everyday on the living room stage. We run through our songs and our parts, but the real truth is in the practical logistics of living—how we balance love and obligation, how we manage the daily messes, the quiet negotiations of who takes the trash out, who picks up groceries, who says sorry first. There’s no spotlight, no audience, just the rhythms of existence. But sometimes, in the middle of it, a melody appears—something unplanned, a harmony that wasn’t written down, a moment of connection that makes the whole performance.
12. “Risky Business”
There have been so many late nights driving on tour, everyone else asleep, where it felt like I was adrift in the middle of the ocean. No houses, no lights—just the yellow lines stretching over blue-black asphalt, pulling me along. Sometimes, far off, a radio tower would blink red from a mountain ridge. A small, distant sign of life—just enough to keep hope flickering and the wheels moving forward. The kind of solitude that can either break you or make you feel completely alive.
13. “Winged Horse”
I hope that when it’s over, I can look back on this life with some levity. As if hovering up in the sky, seeing all those arterial roads and rivers, realizing how they connect—the punchline revealed.
