"Ants From Up There" - Analysis
The tragedy of pouring from an empty heart
Music by Black Country, New Road. Essay by Quinn K.
[I made this little text because I felt like writing something about this album, since I still think about it and listen to it a lot, to this day. Hope you enjoy.]
cw: toxic relationship dynamics, blood, weight-loss mention, drowning mention, cancer mention
To a lot of people, there's an undeniable pull to giving. The idea of committing to something - or somebody - greater than one's self is alluring to many. And in commitment of that kind, to give is normal; giving money, giving time, giving attention, giving possessions.
When we truly believe in something - or somebody - and want the object of our adoration to thrive, we'll give our hearts' contents away.
...To a lot of people, there's an undeniable pull to receiving gifts.
The contradiction is obvious, as is the problem - giving is finite, and receiving is infinite.
Black Country, New Road's sophomore effort "Ants From Up There" tells of a doomed situation like that. The Concorde Fallacy, named after the multinational Concorde agreement (more commonly known as the sunk cost fallacy) is primarily used in economics, but slots perfectly into place with the mental and physical drain of a painful, struggling relationship that flies using only one insidious fuel: Commitment.
Human beings can be addicting; when their favour is hard-won, it's all the sweeter when you do get it. It doesn't matter if the person you loved has categorically ignored you when you asked for their attention, belittled you and your boundaries, taken what you had until you were lacking, hurt you - If they smile at you, it's worth it. If they compliment you, suddenly, it's worth it. If they fuck you, it's worth it.
And you don't even see the tear-stained pillowcases in the wash; you don't notice your health declining, the weight you lose; you don't understand your friends telling you that the relationship is bad for you, because surely, “who I put this much care into must care too, right - right!?” All these warnings dissolve into an ambient buzz, background radiation; they become a hurt so familiar it grows unquestioned.
The song “Concorde” says it a little like this: You wouldn't even notice the relationship was killing you if it was a cancerous growth, diagnosed by a doctor.
Human inertia dictates to keep doing what you've been doing. To keep worshiping at their altar, and, in the small gestures that are oh-so meaningful to you, be rewarded.
"Ants From Up There" showcases this short-circuit in the human mind with an arresting amount of immediacy, intimacy and nuance. It even acknowledges the most horrible part of it all:
You do it to yourself.
People can only walk over your boundaries if they’re violent - or - if you let them; and having trusted somebody who, at the time, you thought you had every reason to trust, can feel like your own mistake.
The muddiness of emotional truth is hard to divide apart - “Ants From Up There” doesn’t try to do so, but instead, pits one side of the relationship - the giver - entirely against himself. The album’s protagonist, Isaac (whose story, while likely autobiographical, I’ll treat as fictional so as to not analyse real people) is filled with self-loathing both over perceived personal inadequacies, chambered in a gun’s barrel pointed at himself, and a clear belief that his commitment to the other person - who’s nicknamed “Concorde” throughout the album - gives his impossible soul some kind of purpose, elevates him by virtue of his servitude of her ghastly better-ness.
When you treat a human being as better, as an object of worship, you're likely to be seen as an object in return: As useful, and disposable. The song “Good Will Hunting” examines this most closely, with a short parable of a hull breach on a starship, with “Concorde” taking the only escape-pod and filling it with things most important to her - leaving Isaac, the disposable, behind.
Isaac also believes that he, himself, is helpless - and to an extent, he becomes it, as he spends all energy he used to spare for self-care on caring for his relationship instead. In “The Place Where He Inserted The Blade”, Isaac not only fails to understand how to cook a simple meal after a recipe out of his interdependency on his partner’s approval and praise, but, on the metaphorical side, where and how he was hurt, what actually happened.
“Good morning - Show me the place where he inserted the blade!”
Notably, he speaks of a “he”, rather than a “she”. Until the very final moments of the album, Isaac is incapable of conceiving that “Concorde” was capable of hurting him; he instead seeks the blame within.
—
Sometimes, I wonder if people on the final flight of the Concorde were sad. About the end of an era, or the end of a peace-project between several nations; the end of a commitment. In retrospect, I assume they probably weren’t - it was just a flight like any other, standard procedure. And after all, they were just passengers. Bystanders.
Maybe, the flight would have been more notable if it had ended with a crash.
Many relationships like the one portrayed in this album exist. They’re a dime-a-dozen, many people take too much, and many people give more than they can; and in some way, “Ants From Up There” seems painfully aware of this. It balances it out through this intense specificity and an emotional rawness that few - maybe no - other albums released in 2022 can match. And through being specific while simultaneously aware of the commonness of its story - interspersing more direct allusions to Isaac and “Concorde’s” relationship with abstract pieces about similarly-shaped situations between unnamed characters - it invites the listener in. It allows them to examine themselves in relation to that hurt.
There isn’t much to learn from “Ants From Up There”; it’s a tragedy. Though written in present tense, it’s been played, recorded, and pressed to physical media; it’s a done affair. Isaac’s life was forever changed by “Concorde”, and though he comes to the realisation of the magnitude of this hurt in the closing minutes of the finale “Basketball Shoes”, and purports some small manner of internal healing earlier in that song, for us, there’s nothing to do but feel for Isaac, and, in the way that his struggles mirror our own, be cleansed.
“Oh, your generous loan to me - Your crippling interest!”
Isaac screams this, tears pouring down his face, closing the album. To the last moment, even knowing his hurt, he feels he has taken from her, not that he was exploited. The name Isaac means “the one who laughs” in Hebrew; an irony like that is stronger than fiction.
If a lesson must be extrapolated for all this hurt to be worth something, I suppose it’s this:
No matter the heights of your altruistic love, no matter the depths of your self-loathing, eventually, you have to stop pouring from an empty heart, or drown in your own blood.
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