The opening seconds of Brett Copeland’s single, “I Wanna Live”, don’t ask for your attention; they stage a hostile takeover. This is a song that feels less written and more clawed out of a desperate moment, built with the kind of volcanic energy that powers revival tents and bar-room brawls. Copeland’s voice is the main event—a raw, muscular instrument that sounds like it’s been aged in whiskey and defiance. It’s a glorious racket, a primal shout aimed squarely at the heavens, or maybe just at the ceiling of a hospital room.
There’s a strange hum beneath the classic rock chassis of it all. It reminds me of the low, threatening thrum of high-voltage power lines stretched across a barren landscape. You know you shouldn’t get too close, but you can feel the immense, untamed energy in the air. That’s the feeling here—the sound of grabbing a live wire because the searing shock is preferable to the encroaching cold. It’s a song about choosing to feel everything, even the pain, in the name of existence.
It doesn’t reinvent the sonic wheel, and frankly, it doesn’t need to. The guitars are muscular, the drums are a stubborn, driving heartbeat, and the whole thing is drenched in a sincerity that borders on furious. You can hear the ghosts of rock’s most impassioned performers in its DNA. This is anthem-as-weapon, a gut-punch of pure, unvarnished will.
The track ends, but the resonance sticks. It’s a messy, powerful piece of rock and roll that leaves you with an odd taste in your mouth—something like rust and lightning. When a song fights this hard for its own existence, what choice do you have but to listen?
