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Rating: How long does a sunset last? For this question, there's a scientific answer, based on calculations and exact, cold formulas, and a more emotional, subjective, warm answer based on our emotions.
My sunset tonight was long, very long. When I realized that the sun was finishing its daily round, when I briefly met its drowsy and benevolent gaze, my sunset looked like an old and faded color photo, the picture of a grandfather holding a newborn baby. And it doesn’t matter much if this grandfather was smoking a cigarette and the smoke wafted into the baby's eyes: it was the eighties, and we weren't that concerned about it. As the sun descended further toward the horizon, that photo took on the shape of other memories: a few years passed, that child grew a bit, he is blonde and with light eyes, and sits happily in a toy car that his parents bought him, wearing a funny shirt with a camera printed on it. The child's eyes are alive, bright, playful; their blue transforms, a few years later, into a blue that matches the sweatshirt he's wearing in another photo. It’s autumn, but the day is beautiful and sunny, and the child is "flexing his muscles" with his dad, who is taking the picture, lifting a freshly cut piece of wood resting on his shoulder, while with the other arm he shows how muscular and strong he is. The child wants to imitate the dad, often challenges him by running, the dad lets him catch up and lets him win, because in his son’s laughter lies the goal of his life. And the child looks at the dad, imitates him, hopes one day to be like him.
The sun descends a little more, and quickly pass the years of childhood, the Christmases, the birthdays, the schools, the friends. From here on, the sun's rays, now low, hit the blades of grass and start scattering into a thousand disjointed strands, scattered like the memories that surface like a fountain, without continuity and without chronological order. The child has grown and got married, there he is speaking in front of the guests at his dinner, and there he is witnessing the dawn sitting on a rock overlooking a Canadian lake. The lively and hopeful eyes of the child once sitting in the toy car are the same as those of the grown boy who, amazed, sees his dream of going to Scotland come true (not knowing it would be the first of many trips!); the child's eyes see a world, see a nature, the English one, that will give him many satisfactions and much tranquility, thanks probably to a wife who has England in her blood and makes it so that, even for him, it feels like "home." The child's eyes, shining like the last rays of the setting sun, review the friends, the girls, the places he has visited, the record covers (many!) he has listened to; they see again the friendly faces, the less friendly ones, they see his faithful four-legged companions, they light up whenever his taste buds encounter a new beer with an unexpected taste.
But it's when the sun is about to leave him, at least for today, that the child's eyes are veiled with a subtle sadness. He relives a difficult year made of painful goodbyes, they tighten in the effort to pretend everything is fine, only to release their tiredness in a consolatory cry when he sees a toolbox again, or listens to a song, or grabs the dad’s camera, or rides his Vespa. That dad he so wanted to imitate as a child, that dad who was a goal for him, maybe wrong, imperfect, criticizable and with many errors, but still an example.
There you go, the sun is gone, at least for today. The child has given way to the boy, now an adult. How long did this sunset last? Almost thirty-five years, filtered through ten songs for just under an hour of duration. The boy has relived some moments of his life, but he is certain that one day, if he ever wants to relive others, all it will take is to press "play" as he bids farewell to the sun going to sleep.
I have never been a great admirer of Austin Lunn and his Panopticon project: too difficult to assimilate for me, his black has always been too multifaceted and particular to be fully appreciated and understood. Then in April of this 2018, the double album "The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless Wilderness" comes out, and although the first part of this work remains quite difficult to digest for my ears (Lunn's now trademark atmospheric black mixed with bluegrass), I am captivated by the beauty of the second part. Leaving black in a corner, here Panopticon strips its music of every reference to the metal world, gifting us ten pieces that are, in fact, a tribute to American folk, slowcore, and (dark) country, all components always integral to his music. There is a lot of intimacy in this work, a lot of introspection, not surprisingly our artist on his Bandcamp page indicates "(…) Please don't listen to the album on your laptop speakers, it will sound like shit. Give it a shot on a long hike or by a fire with headphones.” Yes Lunn, you're right, this handful of songs deserves all the peace and quiet of this world, only so are they able to work best, only so can they allow us to think, to reflect, simply to take a moment for ourselves, even if only to say goodbye to the sun or to those who are no longer.
"The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless Wilderness" is available both as a single format and in the two distinct parts. I am sorry if those who will read expected a review of the first section as well, but I encourage anyone who loves the above-mentioned genres to give this small gem a listen, I am sure the satisfaction will be great.
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