Review By Glen Parkes
Seven albums in, most bands either settle into their comfort zone or start chasing ghosts of what once worked. Whiskey Myers, on the other hand, seem determined to burn down the map and redraw it in their own jagged, unfiltered handwriting. Whomp Whack Thunder (out September 26 via the band’s own Wiggy Thump Records) isn’t just another step in their journey—it feels like a reinvention sharpened to a blade’s edge. Produced by Jay Joyce (known for shaping everything from Eric Church’s outlaw country bite to Cage the Elephant’s raucous chaos), this is a record that thrives on tension, swagger, and the push-pull of a band unwilling to be boxed in.
Where previous outings sometimes leaned more heavily into Southern rock tropes, Whomp Whack Thunder smashes the walls of genre classification. Sure, the outlaw grit and rootsy heart still beat loud, but layered over them are flourishes of arena-sized rock, the dirt-floor stomp of Americana, and the crackle of raw blues. Every track feels lived-in, road-worn, and ready to detonate live—a natural extension of a band currently tearing across the U.S. to sold-out crowds.
If there’s a song that epitomizes the album’s urgency, it’s Time Bomb. A track that has already burrowed its way up the U.S. charts, this one is pure nitroglycerin in musical form. Cody Cannon’s vocal delivery walks the line between preacher and outlaw, part sermon and part detonation. The guitars snarl and snap, refusing to settle into one lane, while the rhythm section pounds like a heart teetering on the edge of combustion. It’s a warning siren, a declaration that Whiskey Myers aren’t here to repeat the past—they’re here to torch it and start again.
It’s no surprise that Time Bomb has found a permanent place on radio rotations. It’s ferocious yet accessible, embodying the kind of crossover moment few bands manage without sanding down their edges.
Where Time Bomb explodes outward, Tailspin turns inward—though it doesn’t exactly slow down. A UK fan favourite thanks to heavy airplay on Planet Rock, the single whirls like a storm you can’t quite escape. It’s the sound of spiralling out but making it feel strangely exhilarating. The groove is thick, the riffs coiled and precise, while Cannon leans into lyrics that wrestle with self-destruction and survival.
Live, this track has already become a crowd igniter, and on record, it captures the fire of the band at full tilt. The song feels like both a celebration and a collapse—proof that Whiskey Myers understand the dual nature of chaos better than most.
The core of Whomp Whack Thunder lies in its refusal to sit still. Take Rowdy Days, which stretches past five minutes, turning into a backwoods hymn drenched in sweat and whiskey-soaked rebellion. The band doesn’t just perform here; they inhabit the track, letting it stretch and breathe like a Saturday night that refuses to end.
Then there’s I Got to Move, a track that wears its urgency on its sleeve. It’s less about travel and more about escape—the need to keep shifting before the walls close in. The guitars blaze with a Southern-rock-meets-hard-rock intensity, Joyce’s production capturing every jagged edge.
One of the record’s most intriguing cuts is Icarus. Where many bands would turn the Greek myth into a predictable metaphor, Whiskey Myers twist it into something darker and more contemporary. It’s about ambition, but also about the weight of consequence—the sound of wings burning in real time. Musically, it soars with a spacious chorus, only to plunge into jagged riffs that mimic the fall. Cannon’s vocal control here is masterful: he doesn’t just tell the story, he embodies it.
Midnight Woman drips with sensual menace. It’s a slow-burner laced with blues grit, built around smoky guitar licks that snake through Cannon’s growl. The track feels like stepping into a dive bar where the air is thick with temptation, the kind of song that lives in the liminal hours where mistakes are made and stories are born.
By contrast, Break These Chains is liberation at full throttle. A concise burst under four minutes, it’s the closest the band comes to pure rock anthem territory. The guitars slash forward with reckless intent, the rhythm section thunders, and Cannon delivers a vocal that feels like an unshackling in real time. It’s catharsis you can dance to—proof that Whiskey Myers can do “big” without losing their rawness.
Born to Do might sound like a straightforward title, but the track itself is anything but predictable. It’s part confession, part proclamation, a song that leans into destiny without sounding self-indulgent. There’s humility buried in its bravado, the sense that Whiskey Myers aren’t declaring themselves chosen but rather acknowledging the weight of their path. Musically, it’s a fist-pumper, blending southern grit with stadium ambition.
Rock N Roll, one of the album’s longest cuts, takes the opposite approach. Rather than sprint, it sprawls. The track unfolds in layers, a love-hate letter to the lifestyle that built them. It’s weary but celebratory, exhausted but still hungry. It feels like a culmination of everything Whiskey Myers have been chasing across their career—a song that could close out a setlist or a record with equal conviction.
Every Whiskey Myers album needs its storyteller moment, and Ramblin’ Jones delivers in spades. A narrative-driven piece, it taps into the age-old tradition of Southern rock balladry, but with a modern pulse that keeps it from feeling nostalgic. The character at its centre is both myth and mirror, embodying every wandering soul who ever chose the road over roots. Musically, it’s restrained but potent, the kind of track that lingers long after it’s over.
Closing track Monsters ensures the album doesn’t go out quietly. Brooding, heavy, and simmering with menace, it’s a slow crawl into the darker corners of the psyche. The production lets space do the heavy lifting here—Joyce knows when to pull back and let the echoes speak louder than the noise. As the last notes fade, you’re left unsettled, reflective, and strangely exhilarated.
What makes Whomp Whack Thunder remarkable isn’t just its songs, though there are plenty of standouts. It’s the cohesion of vision. Cody Cannon’s songwriting, paired with Jay Joyce’s fearless production, results in a record that feels both timeless and contemporary. This isn’t Whiskey Myers resting on reputation—it’s them pushing forward, taking risks, and refusing to be pinned down.
Their ability to blur lines between genres—Southern rock, outlaw country, arena rock, Americana—could easily come off as indecision. Instead, it’s their greatest strength. They’ve built a soundscape that mirrors the messiness of real life: rowdy one moment, reflective the next, always moving, always unpredictable.
With Whomp Whack Thunder, Whiskey Myers remind us why they’ve become such a formidable live act and why their records keep resonating. They’re not chasing trends; they’re building their own. And judging by the packed houses and climbing charts, audiences are more than ready to follow
Whomp Whack Thunder is not just another Whiskey Myers album—it’s a definitive statement. It captures everything the band has been, everything they are, and hints at everything they might become. It’s big without being bloated, raw without being reckless, and polished without losing the dirt under its fingernails.
For long-time fans, it’s a reaffirmation that Whiskey Myers still have plenty of fire left. For newcomers, it’s the perfect gateway into one of the most exciting, genre-defying acts of the last two decades.
Whiskey Myers aren’t just surviving seven albums deep—they’re thriving, innovating, and reminding us all why rock, in its purest form, still matters.
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