Sevendust Deserves A Big Thank You For This Riff Heavy Romp

"Thank You", the latest from Atlanta's own Sevendust, stares you down and dares you to be the last one to blink. Doom settles over the machine handily. Lead vocalist Lajon Witherspoon keeps his growling to a minimum. That's why we get a snack mix platter with a dash of metalcore but predominantly clearly audible words from a man confident in his own skin who bears his soul gallantly. Closure's a key factor in the opening verse, namely how pinning it down in our lives gets ultra complicated. No sooner has the song gotten cranked up then drummer Morgan Rose springs into action. He goes to the rat-a-tat form rather than trying to get explosive too fast, too hard, too soon. As guitarist Clint Lowery owns ferocious licks. To add to that Vince Hornsby's bass has a nasty look that defies reasonable explanation. This army tank of a rock joint keeps right on lumbering ahead until inaction insures your destruction. You can try running all you want but the angst here's apt not only to catch up with you but eventually overtake you. If "Thank You" were to be compared to a weather pattern ominous gray clouds would be front and center. The sky prepares to open up so you'd better patch together whatever cover you can scrounge up. As a music lover it's been my experience that minor chords have the power to evoke the sharpest response in a listener. "Thank You" delivers plenty of those top quality goods. I want to thrust attention back to Clint for a moment. When he gets his electricity going here he'll run down whatever darkened corridor suits him. You'll be hard pressed to make out any lights, fantastic or otherwise. Panning to vocal duties, as if Lajon wasn't laying down enough of an icy blueprint here comes an echoing effect you wouldn't want to bump up against in a sleazy alley. The ending ought to be backdrop for many a nightmare in the weeks to come. All working parts gel beautifully. "Thank You" lets the uneasiness seep throughout your spine slowly a la Mrs. Butterworth's syrup on flapjacks. This band isn't claiming any survivors. Where's the crescendo you might wonder? The entire tune amounts to one long, measured crescendo. Lajon's itching for his reason for being. His search doesn't stray from a feverish level. Waiting around for an explanation's not going to be very useful it would appear. Lajon's urgency, combined with his aggressive periodic teeth gnashing, sets the stage for an effort that never veers that far from impending upheaval. Lucky for Lajon, Sevendust has filled the role as outlet for his twisted genius for a few decades. It's about release folks. The faster the better. As rock enthusiasts we should be thanking Sevendust. The boys have poured out their genre's version of a hard stiff drink one can knock back repeatedly despite the fact your tolerance for the hard stuff may have been eclipsed hours ago.