The War on Drugs

In this nostalgia-happy, authenticity-craved atmosphere that we’re still calling indie rock, few have landed recent lines as potent as Adam Granduciel, frontman of Philadelphia rock ’n’ roll magnate The War on Drugs. “So let’s speak of the past in the future perfect tense,” he sings during the closing verse of “Buenos Aires Beach,” his crisp voice splitting the differences between early Tom Petty, addled Bob Dylan and a crunched tin can. “Oh, the places we will go/ before we grow old.”

That line is as strong as any summary of The War on Drugs’ approach to making urgent thoroughbred rock music by stacking and splicing thick chunks of its past. Sure, it’s full of the sounds and songs of the previous five decades, but it’s somehow still wonderfully urgent. Dylan, Petty and Springsteen all get their dues, of course, especially in Granduciel’s slightly comforting sneer and in his manner of twisting simple images and outlandish ideas into a reality you wish you’d known before. But this isn’t another case of some songwriter arrogantly strumming his chords and spilling his experiences in front of players that might as well be a backing track. No, this is a rock ’n’ roll band, man, blasting these songs through layers of Spacemen 3 grit and drone (“Show Me the Coast”), Eno ambience and stillness (“Reverse the Charges”) and Velvet Underground tone and throb (“Taking the Farm”). The War on Drugs’ 2008 Secretly Canadian debut, Wagonwheel Blues, feels a little like hearing rock music for the first time—ugly and smart, jaded and exuberant, hopeful and heartfelt. It’s the sound of the past, reflecting strangely into the future.

War on Drugs is currently completing its second LP. Oh, the places it may go. —Grayson Currin