The War On Drugs, “Baby Missiles”
Ask your average indie-rock fan “What’s the deal with The War On Drugs?” and you’ll likely get the response, “Oh, that band Kurt Vile used to be in?” It’s true. Vile—the decidedly un-vile, long-haired troubadour/Pitchfork darling—co-founded The W.O.D., and played with the band regularly until his big Matador breakthrough in 2009. And just as he’s gone on to write some seriously kicking tunes, so too has The War On Drugs, whose sophomore album, Slave Ambient, dropped Aug. 16, and shows the band—now a trio—refining and expanding its previous sounds. With W.O.D. slotted to play the Horseshoe Dec. 9, we thought we'd take a look at one of Slave's more expectional jams.
But let’s back up a bit. Originally formed in 2005 by Vile and guitarist-vocalist/multi-instrumentalist Adam Granduciel, The War On Drugs burst forth with a rollicking, blues-like sound that encapsulated the joys and banalities of blue-collar America: feelings of restlessness, hanging out, shooting the shit, and the open road. The band’s 2008 debut full-length, Wagonwheel Blues, earned a respectable 7.8 from Pitchfork thanks in part to folksy, toe-tapping melodies and Granduciel’s Dylan-esque twang. But then we didn’t hear from the band for a while, as it regrouped and hit the studio. And in November 2010, we got Future Weather, a moody, 28-minute EP, with a standout track on Slave, “Baby Missiles.”
“Baby Missiles” differs from older tracks in a few key ways. It’s lush, exuberant, and imbued with a sense of urgency not typical of earlier material; it features synths, piano, and the sort of stadium-sized swagger more often expected from a Springsteen record. The insistent, jangling beat and circular lyrics give the impression of clanking down the road in a rusted Toyota, or maybe a vintage motorbike, with your head nodding to the beat as you roll along. And the fade-out at the end feels like watching the vehicle rattle away to continue its journey down the open road.
The War On Drugs - Baby Missiles by One Thirty BPM
The song starts as if in the midst of warming up, with hazy synths and drums growing louder and steadier, until, about 10 seconds in, they erupt with regularity, setting the pace for what’s to come. If “Baby Missiles” is a road song, here’s where the driver hits cruising speed. Next come Granduciel’s vocals—plaintive and twangy as usual—as he puts forth the story of an intrepid traveler making his way across America. “My friend rides all alone,” croons Granduciel at the start; “He felt alive on the new machine.” (Or at least he sings something like this. Granduciel is emotive, but not the easiest to understand.) A motorik beat—that’s a 4/4 beat, with a repeated pattern of kick-drum hits on beats Nos. 1, 2, and 4, and a snare drum hit on beat No. 3—contributes to the repetitive, yet forward-feeling motion. (Motorik means “motor skill” in German; it was adopted by journalists to describe the ostinato, or repeated, rhythms prevalent in Krautrock tunes such as Kraftwerk’s “Autobahn.”)
The lyrics ramble on, mostly incomprehensible, but key phrases stick out: “My friend dies all alone,” and, “You shoulda seen all the rattling in my brain.” Though “Baby Missiles” feels like an exuberant release, there’s an undercurrent of sadness throughout. “He wants to leave but he don’t know how / He wants to try but he don’t know why,” the lyrics continue. But a harmonica bursts in, and feelings of regret are swept away as the tune (and vehicle) bounce forward. The open road might be lonely, but there’s no time to dwell on emotion.
At this point, the verses break, and we get 20 seconds of impassioned, free-wheeling harmonica. When the vocals return, the words are the same: Granduciel repeats lyrics until the melody gently fades. The songs ends, but the rider’s voyage undoubtedly continues, as he rides off over the horizon.
