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Iron & Wine’s autumn 2002 debut, The Creek Drank theCradle, arrived with all the fanfare of a tree shedding itsleaves. But word spread quietly and quickly. Old-schoolpsychedelic-folk devotees glommed onto Sam Beam’s understatedfinger-picking and his rural-loner mien, while indie kids loved therecord’s no-fi production and its pastoral closeness. Thetunes’ startling intimacy even worked live with a full band.When Beam performed at 2003’s South by Southwest musicconference, hard-hearted bizzers unmoved by the most histrionic emobands got genuinely misty at tales of fields and streams, mothersand sons, fear and flight, and sex in the sun.

While Creek was culled from years of home recordings,Endless is largely a band album. But even without thefour-track vibe, the songs unfold like hopeful prayers (“God,give us love in the time that we have”), before the musicianslaunch them skyward. And for Beam, having other people around seemsto remind him of how fast they can be taken away. The Dayshe writes about are circumscribed by God (hence Endless) anddeath (hence Numbered), and the record is haunted by a senseof impending loss. “Naked as We Came” faces mortalitywith clear eyes and close harmony—“One of us will dieinside these arms,” Beam sings. “One will spread ourashes ’round the yard.”

It all works because Beam is a fearlessly accessible songwriter,framing his melancholy in concrete imagery and solid, invitingmelodies. He writes with the self-confidence of a man at peace withhis gauzy gifts. He sings like a father talking to a child herespects or like a husband to a wife he adores. Beam has given ushis second straight masterwork: self-assured, spellbinding, andrichly, refreshingly adult.