Frontman Michael-Jon's declaration that they "didn't write it for the charts" rings with authentic defiance, and you can hear it in every grinding chord progression. This isn't the manufactured rebellion of focus-grouped rock; it's the genuine article, hewn from the same quarry that produced the great American rock bands of yesteryear.
The comparison to Billy Joel might raise eyebrows—until you hear Michael-Jon's piano work weaving through the mix like smoke through a speakeasy. There's a melodic sophistication here that elevates "Let It Go" above your typical three-chord thrash. The Audioslave influence is more obvious, particularly in the song's monolithic guitar tone and the way it builds tension like a coiled spring. As for The Fray comparison, it manifests in the emotional heft—this isn't posturing; it's genuine catharsis.
What strikes one most forcefully about "Let It Go" is its commitment to dynamics. In an era where everything is compressed to within an inch of its life, TWOFEW understand that quiet moments make the loud ones devastating. The song breathes, swells, and ultimately erupts with the kind of stadium-filling grandeur that modern rock has largely forgotten how to achieve.
The production, handled in their native Phoenix, captures the desert heat and sprawl that seems to inform much of the band's aesthetic. There's space in this mix—room for each instrument to exist without stepping on the others, a luxury that many contemporary rock records can't afford themselves.
Michael-Jon's vocals carry the bruised romanticism of someone who's lived through whatever he's singing about. It's not pretty in the conventional sense, but it's honest, and in rock music, honesty trumps technical perfection every time. His delivery suggests someone who's spent time in dive bars rather than vocal coaches' studios—a welcome change from the over-polished crooning that dominates the airwaves.
The rhythm section deserves particular praise for providing the kind of muscular foundation that allows the song's more adventurous elements to soar. This is rock music that understands its lineage while refusing to be imprisoned by it.
Still, in a musical landscape increasingly dominated by bedroom producers and laptop symphonies, there's something wonderfully anachronistic about four blokes getting together to make an unholy racket. TWOFEW may be from Phoenix, but they're channeling the spirit of every great British and American rock band that understood music should be felt as much as heard.
"Let It Go" doesn't reinvent the wheel, but it reminds us why the wheel was invented in the first place: to get somewhere worth going. In this case, that destination appears to be a place where rock music still matters, still moves people, and still has something vital to say.