Mark the calendar: March 6th, 2026. That’s the day Eleyet McConnell decide they’re done negotiating with the clouds.
The Journey doesn’t creep in politely. It doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It kicks the door open with “The Horizon,” and suddenly you’re standing in the middle of a storm that sounds suspiciously like a Marshall stack turned up just past reasonable. Guitars grind, drums stomp, and Angie McConnell steps to the microphone like someone who’s already been through the fire and came back smelling like smoke and resolve.
“I’ll take it head on; that’s my way.” That line could’ve been a cliché. In lesser hands it would be. Here it lands like a vow carved into a roadside diner booth with a pocketknife. It’s not motivational poster fluff. It’s survival theology wrapped in denim and distortion.
And that’s the thing about The Journey—it’s not trying to be clever. It’s trying to be true.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tdoLqYvJCOg
“The Ledge” snarls in next, pacing like it’s had enough of polite conversation. There’s accusation in the air, and it isn’t disguised. “Standing on the edge of the ledge,” Angie sings, and you can practically feel the drop beneath her boots. The guitars slash instead of shimmer. The rhythm section doesn’t wander. It locks in like a fist. This is confrontation without apology.
But just when you think they’re going to stay in full-on battle mode, they pivot. “Your Eyes” slows the pulse and lets memory seep in. Time has passed. Hair has grayed. Regrets have stacked up like unopened letters. Angie doesn’t oversell it; she leans into restraint, which makes it hit harder. This isn’t nostalgia for Instagram filters. It’s the kind that shows up uninvited at 2 a.m.
“King of Glass” might be the album’s meanest cut, and I mean that as praise. The metaphor—fragile kingdoms built on illusion—cracks wide open under twin guitars and a backbeat that refuses to flinch. It’s the sound of someone finally saying what they’ve been thinking for years. Illusion shatters. Ego evaporates. Truth walks in like it owns the place.
Then comes “Without You,” which risks tenderness and pulls it off. It’s messy and human and not remotely interested in pretending love is simple. “Fallin’ again” gets repeated like a mantra, like maybe if you say it enough times it becomes less terrifying. This isn’t fairy-tale romance. It’s reconciliation with scars still visible.
The title track, “The Journey,” serves as the thesis statement: growth hurts. Storms don’t ask permission. And you don’t get to skip the hard parts if you want the horizon. The production—clean but not sterile—lets the band breathe. You can hear the guitars strain, the drums thud, the vocals carry their own weight without studio sugar.
By the time “Dreamy” closes things out—“Hold on tight… through storms and fire”—you realize this record isn’t about triumph. It’s about persistence. It’s about waking up the next morning and choosing to keep going.
On March 6th, 2026, The Journey doesn’t reinvent rock and roll. It reminds you why it mattered in the first place. Guitars. Grit. And a refusal to bow to the weather.
Sometimes that’s more than enough.
–Leslie Banks