Alex’s Take
I remember it like it was just yesterday; the sink piled high with dirty dishes, me with a sponge and a dream of clean plates. To aid me in my dishwashing journey, I decided to throw on the debut album from “Black Country, New Road,” For the First Time. I had been recommended this album by some asshole I know named Matt Turner, and though I usually take what he says with a grain of salt, I was particularly compelled to check this album out based on the comparisons to Slint and its overall post-rock ethos. From the bombastic, aptly titled “Instrumental” opening to the pulsating, open-ending conclusion with “Opus,” I was enthralled. Though the album’s reputation preceded it with its excess of reference and comparison to other acts, it still felt like something I had never heard before, or had ever been heard by anyone.
The 100 member band (feels that way, anyway) continues this trend with Ants From Up There evocative of an entirely separate crop of artists from the previous record, yet they manage to keep it fresh, filtering these millennial hipster-rock touchstone groups through a singular, BCNR-specific lens. Now, I was a bit late to the listening party (not hearing the thing until 20 minutes after its release like a fake fan) and I was floored from start-to-finish. It made me feel like a young Alex again, discovering and navigating through his first years of autonomous musical tastemaking. The album was reminiscent of that time of opulent indie pop and rock music circa ‘05 to ‘10; with it’s bustling, maximalist orchestration in service of a pop sensibility. I largely think of early Arcade Fire, my favorite band that has been brought up by BCNR themselves as an influence. Polyphonic Spree, Wolf Parade, Stars, Broken Social Scene also come to mind, all of which were seminal artists in my music taste explosion.
I am somewhat incapable of assigning a binary score to art, perhaps because my relationship to art tends to exist squarely in the moment of consumption, or maybe I’m just a dipshit who don’t do numbers good. And, I’ve only listened to it once so far, hardly enough to truly rank it amongst the music pantheon. So much like my widely read, assumed most popular piece on this website about Kanye West’s My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, I will refrain from doing so.
“Intro” perfectly sets up this album. They go straight to a I-V-vi-IV bassline (which, for those of us who have better things to do than study theory all day, is basically a building block progression for all pop music), and they crescendo into a victorious, Midwest-emo explosion. Yet, in the background there creeps a slight dissonance which bullies its way to the front for the last seconds of the fifty-four second track, foreshadowing the anxiety that waxes and wanes throughout the record.
The second track, “Chaos Space Marine” opens up with a regal, uplifting horn-riff. Isaac Wood, both the protagonist and his own antagonist on this record, shakily croons. It’s a faster-paced shorter song than what’s to come, and it’s aptly titled. The jagged, upward riff throughout jerks you around like a marine in space in chaos. “Concorde,” the next track, opens with a marching drum-pattern that makes me think of a line of Queen’s Guards, all who would rather be smoking a joint in a flower pasture than in service of Her Majesty. The big refrain at the chorus is particularly like the sweeping, epic choruses of bands like Sigur Ros, Editors, Arcade Fire, etc. It’s a largely victorious song, though I can’t help but feel like its a secret cry for help, as Wood’s wavering voice fights to break through the wall of sound.
“Bread Song” is immediately in contrast to the bombast of Concorde. It has a sadder, slower opening with sparser instrumentation than the previous two tracks. The string section weeps like an angel with clipped wings. On first listen, this was my favorite song. On second, it remained my favorite song. On third listen, however… it’s my favorite song on the album for sure. When the band (sans drums) joins Wood with a bubbling wave of ambience, I felt the song start to lift me up off the couch where I was sitting. All of a sudden, I am floating in a space not meant for any man, or particles of bread. About halfway through, however, reality crashes through the blissful stupor as the drums come in. And, gosh darn it, it just fires me up. The song ends on a complete opposite note than from where it began, with yet another crescendo (there are a lot of those). And though everything may seem to make sense, you can’t help but feel like something is wrong.
“Good Will Hunting” sounds straight off of Arcade Fire’s Funeral. The female backing vocals are so familiar that it may have just been Regine Chassagne herself. “She had Billie Eilish style,” Wood croons. He makes a lot of similar, pop-culture savvy statements throughout their first two records, reminding us that although this group may sound otherworldly and timeless, they are still very much of this time. Just because they make dope-ass music doesn’t mean they aren’t all struggling twenty-somethings who use phones and watch Tik-Tok and experience the crushing weight of independent adulthood.
“Haldern” makes the most of the individual instrumentalists, with each one coming in slowly, separately, with time granted to fully appreciate their talents. The floating piano riff surrounds us like like leaves falling off trees. Another incredibly beautiful piece, the drums ripple in and out tantalizing us. They build, then halt. The kick drum reverberates like a cannon or a sudden burst of motivation to press on even though everything is hard. The ending of the track is that anxiety bursting through the foreground as the piano and violin fight over control of a horror score. The track draws you in with its sirens, just prior to killing you.
In college, I had the pleasure of witnessing the music recitals of many talented young people who I wish I had even a shred of the skill they had. “Mark’s Theme” takes me right back to the recital hall. Its spacious mix puts you right in the room with them. Though the track is nostalgic, like the vision of your grandfather drinking coffee and reading the news on a Sunday morning, there pervades that constant, static element of unease beneath it all. Like the picturesque memory framed framed on the wall will crack and shatter at any moment.
The beginning of “Where He Inserted the Blade” cradles you in its arms. I think of the atmospheric major-scale joyousness of the Polyphonic Spree; though, as always, Wood is here to remind us that not everything is as pretty as it seems. His lyrics carry a dark heaviness on their backs, juxtaposing against the otherwise ecstasy of the arrangements. “I know you’re scared, well I’m scared too.” Its when you find out that the person you go to for comfort, your supposed rock, reveals that they, too, are as anxious, worried, and scared as you are. The whole song seeks to make sense of a failing relationship, when the spinning gears of the machine you’ve relied on stop turning. The chanting refrain at the end (very Arcade Fire-esque) is the veneer of okayness; a last ditch effort to manifest happiness that’s not there. Like smiling when you’re sad, as if that really helps anyone.
“Snowglobe” serves as another exercise in anticipation, as each instrument slowly gets stacked onto one another. It’s another more somber arrangement, yet there is a certain bliss to be had. An angelic choir clouds above as they ascend you to heaven. That is, until the arrhythmic percussion pulls you right back down, flattening you against the pavement. This song, in particular, is like the HBO show The White Lotus. Just because you’re in paradise, doesn’t mean you’re okay. This song is the embodiment of a panic attack, as the jenga-tower holding you up starts to fall underneath you. On a less heady note, the drummer is just going hard as a motherfucker. “Snowglobes don’t shake on their own,” well, the drummer is going to cause an earthquake in that bitch. After the explosive center-section, it all comes back down, each instrument fading away leaving only the original riff. It’s a grounding back to the comforting drudge of reality. The unfortunate reality is that nothing changed between then and now.
The sun starts to come up after a long, anxiety-ridden night. You haven’t slept, but your heart rate has finally returned to normal. This is the beginning of “Basketball Shoes,” a blissful reprieve from the desperation of “snowglobes.” The world starts to awaken here, the birds start to chirp as they do every day, people are getting in their cars and getting coffee and going to work. This twelve-minute, three part epic is the perfect punctuation to the album. It’s the day after a hard night, filled with relief, regret, and a still lingering sense that the sun could explode at any moment. It ends with the album’s largest movement yet, a crashing collage of metallic drone opening the door to a rumination on last night’s… wet dream about Charli XCX. They close out the album with another chanted chorus.
Black Country, New Road’s music really highlights the struggles and anxieties of being a young adult in the internet age through Isaac Wood’s shaky, wilted metaphor, the band’s technical musical prowess and grandiosity, and sudden tone-shifts like rapid mood-changes. Just about every song has a crescendo, as every track strides to make sense of our complex lives. The explosions at the end of each song is some realization about the nature of existence, be it wrong or right; for better or for worse. I am particularly impressed with the capacity such technically skilled musicians have for messiness, seemingly defying all laws of song structure and theory while still resting its head squarely in the pillow of western canon. In each track, there is always some dissonant element, however small, serving as the thin line between convention and innovation; a facade of manufactured happiness in a caffeinated, always online, celebrity-obsessed plastic world where the only thing that makes sense is nothing will ever make sense. Am I a changed man for hearing this album? Am I going to abandon all superficial desire and live naked in the woods as a monk or monk-ey? Probably not, but I sure enjoyed the hell out of this album.
Still not as good as the song “Thunder” by Imagine Dragons.
Alexander Thomas Simmons is an American first, fresh beat-maker second, and writer extraordinaire third. He would like to thank Matt Turner for publishing his ramblings on an album he liked. He would also like to hit Matt Turner for being the person that he is.