The 10 Best Kurt Vile Songs

Album: Constant Hitmaker

Perhaps one of the reasons this song feels so essential to Kurt's discography is because of his well-known stints as a forklift driver. In fact, he operated the machine in not just one, but in at least two separate jobs—both back before he signed to Matador. The lyric that most stands out, in light of this knowledge, is "diesel fumes up in my personal space" a lament both for those who operate the heavy machinery and the rest of us exposed to it. Vile often takes the larger canvas of a social issue and shrinks it down into a little piece that is easier to digest, something he accomplishes brilliantly in this track. The song is also preoccupied with how tiny our place in the universe is and how technology reveals this to us in unexpected ways. Sonically, it reflects the droning, open spaces of ambient sound that Vile plays with a lot on early albums like Hitmaker but that are rare to hear in his later material, at least so far.

Album: Wakin on a Pretty Daze

Vile is fighting the same battles as ever on his latest album, but it feels like he's on the brink of settling into something that resembles adulthood despite his obvious desire for freedom. The double meaning of his promise not to party "too hard" and the assertion a few lines later that "it's too hard" displays his recurring fascination with words that can be bent to mean one thing or the complete opposite. This diametric opposition informs most of Vile's songwriting, but on "Too Hard" it holds our attention for the whole eight minutes while he struggles with responsibility and rebellion both in lyric and through his tamed, lulling guitar playing on the track. He repeatedly examines the advice he's received to "take his time" and this song does, a study in the art of contemplating, even if the problem can never fully be solved.

Album: Square Shells EP

They say there's nothing more terrifying than getting everything you want, but Vile examines the flip-side to this, what happens when you get almost everything? His finger-picking in this song recalls John Fahey and other American Primitivists with uncanny precision, whatever else he hasn't accomplished, Vile is a master guitar player. Unlike a lot of his other, more experimental tracks, this song feels like a folk song in the traditional sense—it could have been written hundreds of years ago and it would still make sense, the same sentiment would still exist. He references this idea by including the ancient line "Lord willing and if the creek don't rise" which is one of those lines that has become so ubiquitous that it's embedded in the greater fabric of the folk tradition. This song always makes me wonder, what did Vile lose in his devotion to the craft of guitar playing? Could this song be another along the lines of "My Best Friends" and "Runners Up" that laments his loss of deep friendship? Maybe it's a lament at the loss of youth? As usual with KV songs, the mystery only enhances the meaning.

Album: Smoke Ring For My Halo

Aside from the obvious subtext of this song—Smoke Ring is Vile's second release on a major label—this song exhibits the Philadelphia songwriter at his most politically prophetic. When he embraces his own place as a "puppet to the man," it feels especially powerful in light of his signing to Matador, but listening to the way he sings it, one can still sense a disingenuous smirk. This track seems to be his way of coping with the reality that we're all subject to forces greater than us, but the fact that he was even able to put out a song decrying "The Man" on a record released on a major label unravels the whole power system. Vile has written a lot of songs about the pressures of society and how outsiders should behave, but this one feels brazen in a new way, yet is still riddled with enough ambiguity to make the listener doubt his true motive—even if that listener is The Man himself.

Album: Constant Hitmaker

There's a level of confidence to this song that is lacking in some of Vile's later stuff, it's not an angry energy or a lovelorn emotional weight, it feels like he's just proud to be playing the track. It's joyful in a way that isn't related to anything other than the song itself, similar to the way that a freeway feels good to be on purely for the act of driving and the ability to escape. "Freeway" also speaks to Vile's insistence on borrowing lyrics from himself, this track is actually the first appearance of the lyrics "I got a freeway mind" that is also an anchoring bit of "Beach on the Moon." A lot of people have a lot to say about his reuse of lyrics, but when they're this imagery-laden, it feels more like looking at a photograph taken from a different angle than an actual repeated phrase.

Album: So Outta Reach EP

There's a reason why this track was used to tease 2012's release of the So Outta Reach EP—it's leanings are Celtic musically and by using the term "creature" Vile brings a mystical element into the song lyrically. Like most of his blatant love songs, this track cuts right to the meat of things with it's unassuming details about both the object of his affections and Kurt himself. "She says 'I'm a creature of habit' / Ah she's so cute with her claims" comes off as delighted and not condescending, especially since the phrasing makes it impossible to tell whether she's actually habitual or just wishes she was. A love song called "The Creature" easily could've come off as objectification, but under Vile's deft penning the song is full of otherworldly, yet everyday affection.

Album: Wakin on a Pretty Daze

On his latest record, Wakin on a Pretty Daze Vile takes the totemic ideal of title track and alters it by one word, enough to throw off those who painstakingly collect detail, he's effectively forced the listener into his world of borrowed signifiers and repeating motifs. This song is a perfect Kurt Vile song because it seems to contain all his elements—it is ostensibly a celebration of life, but also populated by the monsters and freaks that Vile can't seem to shake. Nor does he want to. This song, more than nearly any other, indicates that Vile is more than eager to embrace the direction his life has taken him in as he croons "To be frank, I'm fried / but I don't mind." Essentially, the chorus in this song is just the word "yeah" repeated in time with the music, something that would be flippant in someone else's song, but in a Vile song it feels like another specifically chosen quilt square in the greater fabric of this nine-plus-minute-opus. There's no ferocity in the instrumentation here, but its force is lurking the nooks & crannies. We get the sense that Vile is too, watching the day begin and planning his wisecrack.

Album: God is Saying This to You

"Slither up just like a snake upon a spiral staircase" sounds like it would be an ominous image, and perhaps Vile is condemning someone here, but even so that combination of sounds and visuals remains one of the most compelling lyrics that Vile has written to date. It's frustrating how many people label Vile as "stoner rock" and move on, when the way that he is using words is often comparable to some of the greatest poets that the English language has seen. "I've got a freeway mind" is the caliber of a Dylan lyric, and Vile knows it (that's probably why this song is the second he's used it in). He never bothers to argue with the stereotypes slapped on him or snide interviewers side-eyeing his style choices—instead he lets the music speak for itself. The effect on the vocals that makes his voice sound far away ties the title back in, is there a more isolated place than a beach all the way out on the moon?

Album: Smoke Ring For My Halo

It was a hard-fought battle over whether this song or "Freak Train" would be number one. Where some songs find Kurt at his most vehement, this stand-out from Smoke Ring For My Halo reveals his more intimate, vulnerable side. Not only do we get the domestic side of Kurt, but along with that, one of the best love songs ever penned. The bubbly, blurry feel of the instruments on the track, like they've all been smudge a little bit, is the perfect sonic reflection of how life looks a little different through the lens of love. Sections of his guitar-playing here, along with the flutes, make it sound like a song Paul Simon wishes he wrote. But Vile gets all the credit here, well maybe a little can go to his wife who seems like the obvious muse for this song.

Album: Childish Prodigy

This is Kurt at his most vile, his most virulent and his most violent. The way that he bellows out "ridin on the freak train train train TRAIN" turns the word itself into an insult. This song is a reflection of just how much Vile identifies with the concept of outsider, and how much that mindset informs his music. Vile's crowning achievement as a songwriter is his ability to meld relational commentary with social commentary with his own deeply personal, poetic experience—and that's just the lyrics. Let's not forget that over the course of seven minutes this song includes at least five different types and kinds of guitar solo, a Springsteen-worthy saxophone solo, and drums that make it feel like the song is racing against time, trying to beat itself to the destination. For Vile, there is no destination, just the movement of the train forever running along the rails.