The guitar doesn’t just open Submission it carves its way in, dragging a growl behind it. From the first riff, there’s an unmistakable sense that something primal is at play, a storm gathering in slow, deliberate motion. Scott O’Brien, a veteran with more than three decades under his belt, taps into a sound that feels less like a performance and more like a confrontation with the self, with the past, with something unspoken.
Unlike so many instrumental tracks that aim for grandiosity or technical acrobatics, Submission finds power in restraint. Every note feels weighed, every bend and slide intentional, like a language born of tension. The song doesn’t meander it moves with grit and purpose, each phrase pressing forward like a choice made under pressure. There’s melody, yes, but it never softens the track’s rugged spirit. Instead, it sharpens it. As layers build tight rhythm work beneath expressive lead guitar lines there’s a palpable sense of escalation. O’Brien doesn’t just play the guitar; he listens to it, lets it breathe, lets it seethe. The distorted tones never spiral into chaos; they hover at the edge, gripping just tight enough to hold form while threatening to break apart. That balance, that control, is what gives the track its edge.
Somewhere in its midsection, the song dips just briefly into a melodic hush. Not peace, but perspective. And then, with renewed weight, it surges back, louder, meaner, more resolved. It’s not a comeback. It’s a choice. Submission doesn’t beg to be understood. It stares you down, dares you to feel something without offering a single lyric. That takes guts. And O’Brien, clearly, hasn’t run out of those.
