After the exit of their beloved frontman Isaac Wood, the path ahead for Black Country, New Road was not without mystery — full of possibility, yes, but mostly uncertainty, even after releasing an exciting yet uneven live record that gave a glimpse of what could be a year after Wood left. The promise of how they might evolve became impossible to ignore, and it's a promise that calls to mind a particular flower.
When the queen of the night offers itself to human eyes for the first time, it carries a quiet mystique, thrilling yet hidden. But as time slips toward its elusive full bloom, expectations mount; doubt even lingers. Will it fulfill the promise of striking beauty? Like this flower, BCNR are proof that potential doesn't fade just because its shape changes.
The fact that they are just as formidable as before on their latest album, Forever Howlong, is a feat of affirmation: an act of quiet defiance against the pressures of expectation, not to prove their worth but to reaffirm that they've always been this wondrous assembly of talent. The question was never whether they'd become a stronger whole, but whether their bloom would feel the same, if not more impressive.
From the opening moments of "Besties," the band leans into the unknown with playful resistance, a refusal to wilt under the presumptuous weight. The arrangements are intricate, anxious and exuberant, with their signature blend of orchestral grandeur and DIY charm feeling more assured than ever. Lewis Evans's saxophone curves through the mix with a knowing grin, while May Kershaw's harpsichord floats forth, meeting Georgia Ellery's coy lyrics in a heartwarming embrace.
Together, they paint a portrait of friendship that is lighthearted and validating, but fragile and fraught with fear, too. Forever Howlong is threaded with this unspoken trepidation; not about change itself, but the ramifications of it. A band built on friendship is always at the risk of falling apart, but BCNR have pressed on. They're not the same kids who broke through with their invigorating, anxious nihilism — and though many have questioned their fate since, they've been in bloom this whole time, waiting for us to realize it.
Marked by a more measured introspection that often comes with age, the band's musical evolution mirrors this maturation with a more considered baroque pop sound that moves with turbulence rather than against it. And yet, Forever Howlong still shows flashes of the flippant unpredictability of their earlier days. The Ellery-led "Two Horses" first unfurls like a spectral presence before galloping into a chase, evoking the krautrock-klezmer chaos that once defined them — except, it's been reshaped and redirected, and so has the unique touch of each remaining member.
Yes, Charlie Wayne, Lewis Evans and Luke Mark continue to play their supporting roles with precision, as their instrumental acumen still forms the bedrock upon which BCNR's sound thrives. Though often in the background, their contributions are indispensable. However, it's the pronounced presence of Ellery, Kershaw and Tyler Hyde that truly defines this band's new post-Wood era. Once part of a broader ensemble, their voices now lead the charge with a power as one, while simultaneously each offering something uniquely essential to the album.
Kershaw's voice is haunting yet graceful; Ellery's pulls us inward with an impenetrable sadness, while Hyde's shifting tones inject a dramatic edge. And not once on the album does it feel like one is outshining the other, as they contribute to an experience that feels authentic to them, more so than if one took on the reins alone. In no place is this more true than through the '60s folk-pop of "Mary," as the three harmonize, coalescing into one ethereal hum to project something singular yet somehow plural.
This record feels warm. Like a familiar voice in a new room. Like a band learning how to be a band again. But there's something missing; that thing that once coiled beneath their songs. That sharp edge, that nervous energy? Gone. Their sonic progression is undeniably compelling, but their ever-present unease of old has given way to new kindliness and radiance.
In this shift, however, one can't help but feel the absence of what once characterized them. They're no longer defined by unbound anxiety, but a calm confidence that will attract new listeners while alienating some long-timers. Still, a touch more shadow or a frown held longer might have deepened its beauty.
By "For the Cold Country," the flower has reached peak magnificence: a moment of aching ephemerality before the inevitable waning. A piece of modern, Newsom-ian baroque pop that meets the old-world, romantic storytelling of a medieval poet, the song swells with cascading strings and harmonies that fuse and diffuse until a profound quiet and relief settle in, settling like a death that is near but not quite there. Just as quickly, though, it fades; the kite stuck, "shredded in the trees." The petals curl inward.
So then, if "For the Cold Country" is the bloom at its peak, "Nancy Tries to Take the Night" is the creeping darkness that follows, reclaiming what was momentarily illuminated to say goodnight. There's something mischievous, almost sentient about the way it moves, shifting between melancholy and jittery passion. Like most songs on the record, it has several non-sequitur parts. They don't quite make sense, but they form a dramatic whole that slowly fades into uncertainty. There's no resolution — only an ellipsis that points back to "until next time, friend." The flower will always wilt. And yet, it will return.
Perhaps that's the heart of Forever Howlong: embracing change, even at the cost of losing what once was. Like the queen of the night, it fans wide and confident; its petals may fall back to earth quickly before dawn, but its essence lingers. The same flower, transformed but unmistakably familiar, will greet eyes, though briefly, once again.