It’s somewhat astonishing that it took The Cars five albums to finally release a song explicitly about, well, cars. For a band named “The Cars,” Ric Ocasek, the principal songwriter, seemed to deliberately avoid the obvious automotive lyrical themes for six years. Was this avoidance intentional? The 1984 hit song “Drive” makes you wonder if it was a conscious decision to sidestep the expected. It’s almost a cliché – The Cars singing about cars? It would be like The Cure constantly writing about remedies, or Morrissey penning odes to metalworking. Yet, cars are such rich territory for songwriting, a theme ripe with potential that The Cars initially seemed to ignore.
From the 1950s onward, the car radio became a crucial portal for teenagers to access music, offering a mobile escape that rivaled even the jukebox at the local soda shop. More than just a mode of transport, the car evolved into a sanctuary in pop culture, a rolling stage for tales of first kisses, tragic endings, heartbreak anthems, and often, thinly veiled metaphors for romantic encounters. Cars represented freedom, privacy, a route to home, or a path to escape, immortalized in songs ranging from the dark premonition of “Dead Man’s Curve” to the rebellious energy of “Detroit Rock City” and the sleek innuendo of “Little Red Corvette.”
With “Drive,” it feels as though Ocasek momentarily forgot the name of his band and crafted a profoundly simple yet deeply moving song about the poignant finality of driving someone home. This act encapsulates a very particular type of sadness – the recognition of a relationship destined to end, a bond that’s reached its terminus. It evokes a feeling almost archetypal, like a character from a classic melodrama or an ancient Greek tragedy: that feeling of inevitable separation. Ocasek masterfully builds upon this feeling, layering questions within the intimate space of the car, each one adding to the emotional weight. Driving someone home becomes symbolic – is it the beginning of the end, or perhaps the definitive last step? This simple action becomes the central request around which all other unspoken questions revolve, powerfully emphasized in the chorus.
The first, second, and third iterations of the chorus conclude with an ellipsis, a musical hesitation as bassist Benjamin Orr’s vocals subtly avoid the expected tonic note, landing instead on the fifth. This musical choice embodies a sense of demurral, a waiting for an answer that perhaps is already known but not yet spoken. It’s a beautifully liminal space created by these unanswered questions, enhanced by music that is both subtly ominous and lavishly produced, evoking a sense of being caught between a cherished past and an uncertain, possibly bleak future – or is it the other way around? Are we witnessing the aftermath of a crash, or desperately trying to steer clear of one? The questions themselves seem to morph – from genuine inquiries to rhetorical musings, then to romantic pleadings, and finally, to something almost nagging and unsettling. The repeated questioning, the pleading tone, culminates in the stark lines, “You know you can’t go on thinking nothing’s wrong, but/Who’s gonna drive you home tonight?”
When Orr’s voice finally resolves on the tonic note at the song’s conclusion, it’s the music itself that provides the answer. The tension releases, the musical suspension resolves, and the song fades away, leaving a resonant feeling. Unlike a Springsteen narrative where the car and the drive are vividly literal, in “Drive,” it’s less clear if the car is just a car, or if the drive home is merely a physical journey. However, with that final, resolved musical note, we understand the answer to the unspoken questions, and we undeniably recognize that feeling. It’s a blend of defeat, foreboding, and desperation, yet tinged with a fragile glimmer of hope. These are the pop songs that resonate most deeply – filled with both impending doom and intense longing, songs that metaphorically grab your hand and whisper: “I’m all you’ve got tonight.”
