“I’ve got it up on my phone,” says Patrick.

“I’ll read it on mine,” says Jezz, getting up. “Here. Anders. You take the computer.”

The phone in my pocket is just a phone. The guys know this. They’re nice about it, which makes it sting a little more.

We all shut up and read.

At the end of a potholed road a few miles beyond the small town of Greenwood, somewhere deep in the Northwoods of Minnesota, you’ll find the Crow’s Nest Coffeehouse. And inside the Crow’s Nest—on Friday nights, anyway—you’ll find the future of American metal.

My heartbeat switches to double time.

On this Friday night in mid-April, just like every other Friday night for the past year, Last Things takes the stage. The crowd, which packs the coffeehouse from wall to wall, screams. The band launches into a blistering set of twenty original songs. Some are reminiscent of Tool’s mathematically swirling rhythms, some hint at the beautiful melodic lines of Opeth, and some sound like nothing but themselves.

There’s the link to the video. “Superhero.” In the still image, my head is bent, my left fist clamped around Yvonne’s neck, my strumming hand an upward blur. The other guys aren’t visible.

From the driving, distorted pulse of “Breakdown,” to heartbreaking, stripped-down solos like “Deep Water,” Last Things has cultivated a sound that’s drawing fans from as far off as Minneapolis.

The three-piece ensemble, featuring Jezz Smith (bass), Patrick Murray (drums), and Anders Thorson (lead guitar, vocals), has been playing together for four years. A deal with a major label is just around the corner.

. . . But first, they have to finish high school.

“We all agreed that we’d wait to sign anything until we had our diplomas,” says drummer Murray, 18.

“We can’t wait to sell out,” laughs bassist Smith, also 18.

Smith and Murray are talented musicians, the foundation of a tight ensemble. But Thorson’s skills as vocalist, guitarist, and composer push the band into another sphere.

Oh, Jesus. It takes every single muscle in my body to keep the smile off my face.

Onstage, Thorson is an engine of sharp, wordplay-heavy lyrics, a vocal range that goes from pitch-black growl to rich baritone, and guitar skills decades beyond his age. But as soon as he sets down the guitar, he’s self-effacing. Almost shy.

When asked how he feels about being called a prodigy, his face clouds.

“I don’t like that term,” he says. “It’s just years of lessons and practicing and sitting in your room alone. Just being an obsessive loser, basically.”

He’s even more reticent about his songwriting process.

“I don’t really have a process. Ideas come to me. I write them down.”

“That’s what he’s like,” says Murray as Anders ducks away to pack up an amp. “He can’t really talk about music. He just plays it.”

What’s it like working with someone like Thorson?

Smith grins. “You know how you’ll be driving down some empty country road and some maniac passes you going insanely fast, and without even thinking about it, you’re suddenly going ninety miles an hour, trying to catch up? Yeah. That’s what it’s like.”