Ants From Up There: An album that burns slow and stays forever
You ever hear a record that just latches onto you? Not in a fleeting, this is pretty good way, but in the kind of way that sticks to your ribs - something you carry around, unpacking new layers with each listen? Ants From Up There is that kind of album. It's fragile but towering, intimate but theatrical, tragic yet euphoric. It's the sound of a band reaching for something just beyond their grasp - and, ironically, grabbing hold of it just as everything falls apart.
Released in early 2022, Ants From Up There marked a turning point for Black Country, New Road (BCNR). Their debut, For the First Time, was all jagged edges and frantic, jazz punk energy. But here? They slow things down. They let melodies breathe. They lean into emotion in a way that feels both deliberate and completely unfiltered. And, of course, there's the looming specter of frontman Isaac Wood's departure - announced just days before the album's release - casting a heartbreaking shadow over the whole thing.
The sound: from chaos to catharsis
Stylistically, this album is a step away from the band's more dissonant, post-punk leanings and toward something grander. There are traces of chamber pop, indie rock, even 2000s emo lurking in the DNA here. The arrangements swell and contract like living things, with violins, pianos, and woodwinds threading through delicate guitar lines. It's post-rock in spirit - think Godspeed You! Black Emperor, but with a heart-on-sleeve sincerity that feels more The Monitor-era Titus Andronicus.
But let's talk specifics.
Chaos Space Marine kicks things off with a burst of nervous energy. It's jittery, joyful, and slightly off-kilter - like someone sprinting through a field with their shoelaces untied.
Concorde is just stunning. A slow burn of a song that gradually unfurls into something massive, like watching storm clouds gather before the downpour.
Bread Song is somehow both oddly funny and devastating. Isaac sings about crumbs in bed like it's the end of the world, and by the time the song swells into its gut-punching climax, you believe him.
The Place Where He Inserted the Blade is straight-up the most beautiful thing this band has ever put to tape. Heart-wrenching, cinematic, and painfully human.
Basketball Shoes is the grand finale. Almost 13 minutes long, it builds and builds until it practically collapses under its own weight. It's everything BCNR does best - cathartic, intricate, deeply personal - wrapped up in one song.
Lyrics that feel like unfinished letters
There's something deeply confessional about the lyrics on Ants From Up There. Isaac Wood doesn't just sing; he pleads, he reminisces, he agonizes. His voice is shaky, at times barely holding itself together, and that vulnerability makes every word land with more weight. He writes in these strange, hyper-specific images - airplanes, old houses, bizarre medical metaphors - that somehow feel universal in their emotional impact.
Take Snow Globes. The repeated cries of "God of Weather, Henry knows!" shouldn't be as gut-wrenching as they are, but something about the way they're delivered - like someone tearing themselves apart in real time - makes them feel monumental. Or Good Will Hunting, where he compares himself to a "puppy dog" in a relationship that feels both tender and doomed. These aren't straightforward love songs; they're the messy, complicated emotions that fuel love songs.
The emotional weight of a farewell
And then there's the real-world context. Just before the album's release, Isaac announced he was leaving the band due to struggles with mental health. It casts the record in a whole new light - every lyric, every crescendo, every trembling vocal delivery feels like an unintentional goodbye.
Would this album hit the same way if he had stayed? Maybe. But knowing it's his final statement with the band makes it all the more devastating. Ants From Up There feels like a grand farewell, even if it wasn't intended as one. And as the final notes of Basketball Shoes ring out, you're left with that aching, hollow feeling - the kind that only truly special albums can create.
Where does it stand?
It's hard to rate something this emotionally charged, but if we're talking numbers - 9.5/10 feels right. Ants From Up There is special. It's a record that takes its time to sink in but leaves an impression that doesn't fade. Some albums are instant classics because of their technical brilliance; others because they hit you in a place you weren't expecting. This one? It does both.
Will it be remembered as a defining album of the 2020s? Feels likely. But more importantly, it's an album that, for those who truly connect with it, will mean everything.
FINAL SCORE: 9.5/10