M. Ward's imagination roams free in Portland, where small-scale creativity thrives amid the corporate pop business' decline.

Reporting from Portland, Ore. — "We don't use the word 'grande' here," said the barista at Albina Press, one of the latte-obsessed Pacific Northwest's many shrines to the perfectly pulled cup. "That's a proprietary term of the Starbucks company. Do you mean 'large'?"

While I tried to sweet-talk my way out of a bitter drink, Matt Ward, who'd suggested we meet here, scanned the coffeehouse for a table. Every spot in the large, airy room was taken by someone hunched over a laptop or a book. This cross section of students, unidentified "creatives" and home-office refugees would not tolerate the noise of a journalist quizzing a musician.

So we sat outside, pulling our sweater sleeves down against the January damp. Ward didn't seem to mind. The 35-year-old recording artist, better known by his nickname, M. Ward, had been on his own laptop when I'd come in -- just another independent contractor pursuing his bliss.