Forever, Howlong – ALBUM REVIEW

When a band loses its frontperson, it usually loses the plot. But Black Country, New Road have never been a group that sticks to tradition. Forever Howlong, their third studio album–and first proper studio effort since founder and lead singer Isaac Wood's departure–isn't just a step forward, it's a hard left turn into the woods, somewhere between a Renaissance fair and an experimental theater troupe's shared dream.

Rather than patch over the space left by Wood, BCNR reroute entirely on Howlong, trading their previous frenetic post-punk intensity for a rich palette of whimsical and rustic textures. The record features plucked strings, fluttering flutes, and a cast of characters that seem lifted from folklore or fever dreams. What could have been a loss of direction instead becomes a bold and unified album, channeling nervous energy into heartfelt sincerity–as close to ensemble theater as indie rock.

If 2022's Ants From Up There was the sound of a band beautifully tearing itself apart, Forever Howlong is the sound of one learning to hold itself together. "Besties" kicks things off with sunlit harmonies and chiming harpsichord, led by Georgia Ellery. Unspooling like a Gen-Z fairytale (a reference to TikTok juxtaposed against baroque instrumentation) "Besties" sounds like it was stitched together from Instagram captions and chamber music, portraying modern longing in medieval drag.

But this is far from simple dress-up: BCNR plunge into this new soundscape with complete sincerity. The band's earlier spoken-word monologues are replaced by full-bodied melodies and a track listing that's sequenced like scenes in a play, each one unfolding with deliberate narratives. "Two Horses" sounds like it was pulled from a 19th-century penny novel, its drama swelling with every twist in the plot—betrayal, escape, and yes, a pair of doomed horses. Tyler Hyde's "Nancy Tries to Take the Night" shifts from lullaby to panic spiral as Nancy–pregnant and alone–gallops through a village, unsure of her future. The song builds toward a cathartic explosion, and then pulls away just before it hits. It's not a fake-out. It's mercy.

A hushed fable by May Kershaw, "For the Cold Country" is the album's emotional centerpiece. Beneath its old-world imagery lies something rather raw and current: a longing for human connection and quiet understanding. It's a candle in the dark–its power lies not in its scale, but in its restraint. The track ends not in triumph but in calm, collected companionship: "Can I sit down next to you? I might not speak for a while / But just to be here with you." It's the most moving song on the album, and, fittingly, it's the most subtle.

Without a central voice steering the ship, BCNR have redefined themselves as a story-sharing circle. Each member brings their own thread to the tapestry–Hyde, Ellery, and Kershaw craft distinct emotional perspectives that interlock like overlapping journal entries. The bright-eyed and nervy "Salem Sisters" plays like a diary gone theatrical, its tumbling piano lines and oddball energy masking an undertone of social dread. The track conjures the feeling many are all-too-familiar with: being hyper-aware of your own presence at a party and imagining judgment in every glance or interaction. "Mary," on the other hand, is almost eerie in its stillness. The track's recorder solo doesn't feel like a flourish, but a quiet echo so fragile it could disappear if you breathed too hard.

Howlong's character portraits feel more like fragments of a single conversation than disconnected vignettes. A line from "Besties" echoes subtly in "For the Cold Country." The protagonist in "Nancy" feels like a cousin to the wanderer in "Two Horses." Even the song structures mirror each other—shifting tempos, nonlinear arcs, and moments that break the fourth wall ("Here comes the chorus!" croons Hyde on "Socks"). It's a style that could get lost in its own preciousness, but thanks to the strength of the melodies and the surprising cohesion of the band's new sound, it amounts to a thrilling new direction.

That sound, if it's not obvious yet, is gorgeous. The band's earlier abrasiveness has been traded for tender acoustic guitars that sway rather than stab, pianos that drift like fog, and woodwinds that flicker like passing thoughts. There's a warmth to the album that's less about volume and more about vulnerability. The band still knows how to erupt when needed—the climax of "Socks" is massive—but the explosions are rarer now, and more effective for it.

The record does wander occasionally. Some tracks flirt with overindulgence ("The Big Spin" loses its footing a bit in its second half), and there are moments where the musical ideas feel more like sketches than songs. But the ambition is never half-hearted. Even when it stumbles, Forever Howlong falls forward.

The curtain falls with "Goodbye (Don't Tell Me)," a farewell that feels less like a conclusion and more like the type of song that gets played at the end of a late-night bonfire that no one wants to leave. Ellery sings "I've fallen in love with a feeling," and by this point in the album, so have I. It's not a feeling of resolution or even clarity, but of sharing space, finding the right chord with someone else, even for a moment.

Black Country, New Road have returned with a record that dares to be soft. That might not be what fans of their earlier work (including me) expected. But it's that left turn into gentleness that makes Forever Howlong so moving. In a music world that often confuses cleverness with depth and detachment with cool, BCNR have done something far riskier: they've committed to care. Earnestness is their new edge. For a band that started as a post-punk punchline, that's a wild and beautiful place to end up.