By Alexander Szeptycki

Regardless of what’s to come, Ants From Up There represents a dizzying creative apex for Black Country, New Road.

Cover art for the Black Country, New Road’s album Ants From Up There.

Just five days before the release of Ants From Up There, Black Country, New Road’s lead singer Isaac Wood announced he was leaving the band. He explained that the decision was about self-care; he needed to prioritize mental health over making music. Wood’s departure lends the band’s second album an air of finality. And the music backs up that suggestion; the recording is the culmination of songs the group has been developing in live shows as well as tracks it has released throughout the past year. The result is a virtuosic musical display of Black Country’s challenging and twisting sound that only improves with each listen.

The album’s opening odd-time sax intro makes it clear that the band’s sound depends on the instrumental wizardry of its members: the focus moves from band member to band member with dizzying speed. This is an eclectic bunch of melody makers: the saxophone of Lewis Evans, the violin of Georgia Ellery, the keys of May Kershaw, and the guitar of Luke Mark. The all trade places while nestled on the powerful foundation of Tyler Hyde’s bass. The frequent shifts in melody and rhythm are aided and abetted by the finesse of drummer Charlie Wayne, who lashes out with proggy cadences amid the controlled chaos.

The rich music of the band takes full advantage of their talents — Wood has a sonic pageant to sing over. “Bread Song” is a particularly striking expression of the group’s approach; they lock in together via a long swell that eschews any defined tempo, until the track finally settles down into a stuttering groove. It’s a remarkable slow burn. “Haldern” moves in the opposite direction — it stuns with its dynamism. Sax and piano runs go toe to toe with heavy guitar riffs that ramp up as the song pushes forward. The tune ends with keys and sax in tandem, twisting around each other as they gleefully ignore the time signature.

The band’s musical virtuosity feeds a desire to experiment, reminiscent of prog rock. Ideas are stretched out to their breaking points, such as on the nine minute “Snow Globes.” Lyrically, it’s an inscrutable account of Henry VIII and Catherine of Aragon. The song slowly spotlights a mantra, the line “God of weather, Henry knows/snow globes don’t shake on their own.” The backup to this nonsense sentiment is a fragmented sort of dirge; steady guitar picking swells along with sax and string passages. The accompaniment is complicated by drums that threaten to drag the entire track into chaos. It’s overindulgent, a little hard to listen to, and somehow still compelling.

This album’s best moments come when the band fulfills its lofty musical visions. “Basketball Shoes,” the stunning closer, packs three harrowing musical journeys into one song. Lonely plucked guitars open the song; they are slowly joined by the other instruments, one by one. By the time Wood starts singing, the track has reached an imperious crescendo; it promptly drops away before building up momentum again. These two crescendos are immediately followed up with the arrival of a new musical direction in the form of an unsettled, racing groove. “Oh, I can’t think of anything better/pick a hair off my sweater/And drown in me/Like boyfriend jeans” Wood yells over crashing drums, wailing sax, and a powerful barrage of noise. This rushed groove quickly fizzles out — the song closes on yet another awe-inspiring build. This time, all the instruments play in unison, and choir vocals fill the background. This solid wall of noise is orchestral brilliance woven into the spine-tingling power of a rock and roll song.

Making exciting music is the foundation of Black Country, but Wood’s lyrics are what make this band so distinctive. He draws an accurate bead on the personal turmoil that infests everyday life. Take “Bread Song,” which turns bread crumbs scattered on a bedspread into a haunting remnant of a lover. “This place is not meant for any man/Or particles of bread,” he quietly intones.

Black Country, New Road’s performing in 2020. Photo: Wiki Common

“Concorde” is maybe Wood’s best use of metaphor to illuminate inner pain. He starts thinking about the Concorde jet, a technological farce given its exorbitant costs and limited use. He moves from there to the sunk cost fallacy, a term that was inspired by the jet. (We can’t help but throw good money after bad.) Wood takes that idea and examines his relationship. He knows that it is doomed, but is in too deep to want to extricate himself. “Don’t text me till winter/I can hardly afford a second summer of splinters,” he mutters. There is plenty of ruthless self-laceration here — Wood is never shy of turning his microscope inward. But he can bring a sense of fake-out humor to this scrutiny of his weaknesses. “Show me the place where he inserted the blade,” Wood wails on the song of the same name. The lyric sounds life-threatening, but the tune is just about him ruining dinner. But from there the track devolves into Wood examining how useless he feels when he’s not with somebody: “I get lost, freak out/You come home and hold me tight/As if nothing ever happened at all.”

To be truthful, there’s a lot about Black Country that I would normally find, to be blunt, downright annoying. The overindulgent and overlong songs, the lyrics filled with esoteric references. It reflects a dippy, prog sensibility that I have always found grating (think Rush, Yes, Emerson Lake & Palmer). But this band gets away with it because they’re clever enough to make it all work. The arrangements are spellbinding and Wood as a vocalist knows exactly when to be devastating and exactly when to be, well, a little too clever. There is no doubt that his departure will drastically change Black Country, New Road. Regardless of what’s to come, Ants From Up There represents a dizzying creative apex, a satisfying endpoint to what might be a chapter in the band’s story.

Alex Szeptycki is a writer from Charlottesville, VA. He recently graduated from Stanford University, majoring in American Studies with a focus in contemporary art and pop culture. He’s currently working as a freelance writer at the Arts Fuse while navigating post-grad life in a pandemic.