![](/_image?href=https%3A%2F%2Fmjk-decades.s3.eu-west-2.amazonaws.com%2Fimage%2FbVmKQaUA6w.jpg&w=1200&h=1200&f=jpg)
![](/image/allmusic.com.jpg)
![](/image/albumoftheyear.org.png)
![](/image/discogs.com.png)
![](/image/facebook.com.png)
![](/image/google.com.png)
![](/image/metacritic.com.png)
![](/image/musicbrainz.org.png)
![](/image/rateyourmusic.com.png)
![](/image/wikidata.org.png)
![](/image/wikipedia.org.png)
Slave Ambient shares several qualities with its 2008 predecessor, Wagonwheel Blues: a sense of open-freeway abandon and splendid isolation set against a glorious expanse; an unabashed admiration for FM-radio Americana icons of yore (Springsteen, Dylan, Petty); and a willingness to buff the band’s gritty edges with serene, if randomly deployed, instrumentals and reprises. But as much as the War on Drugs make music to accompany an escape to something better, they’re the sort of band that believes the journey is more important than the destination. The songs on Slave Ambient don’t necessarily end in a place very different from where they began, but through subtle sonic manipulations and layering they give the impression that a great distance has been traveled. The really amazing thing about the album is how anthemic and affirming it feels despite the near total absence of proper sing-along choruses.