At the Midwest Mixtape Podcast, most studio sessions start with: Alexa, play “I Don’t Live Here Anymore” by The War on Drugs. It’s not just background music—it’s the vibe. A compass. A reminder that everything we do, every word we record, is filtered through the lens of experience, memory, and time – both past and future.
There’s a strange comfort in hearing those opening lines drift through the studio:
“I was lying in my bed / A creature void of form…”
There’s the nod to Bob Dylan that’s hard to miss, and also clear as day later on—“Like when we went to see Bob Dylan / We danced to ‘Desolation Row’.” And it’s perfect. Because just like Dylan, The War on Drugs has this uncanny ability to make something complex feel so simple. Like explaining to a toddler that time is not something that you conceptualize, but rather feel. That reference also isn’t just about a Dylan; it’s about two people sharing something fleeting and infinite at once. It’s about music being the soundtrack to who we were—before we became who we are. It’s a song about leaving—not just a place, but a version of yourself that is no longer serving you.
If you watch the video above, in the comments you’ll see someone say “If A Deeper Understanding was a rainy midnight walk under city lights, I Don’t Live Here Anymore is sunrise cutting through storm clouds”. The song pulses with a driving rhythm, like thunder—and the sunrise – headlights on a two-lane road, like someone who’s been sitting still for far too long and just decided to go.
The song never offers clean resolution. And maybe that’s the point.
“We’re all just walkin’ through this darkness on our own.”
It’s brutally honest. But there’s grace and beauty in that too. Because even though we’re walking alone, we’re all walking.
That’s why we start our sessions with this song at Midwest Mixtape. It reminds us that everyone who steps into The Barn Studio is carrying something invisible. And sometimes, the music is the voice that we sometimes don’t have, or the words we choose not to say. Like time, both fleeting and infinite.
Written by: Chad Winch
The Barn 