By Jack Rafferty
My first exposure to Austin Lunn’s one-person
atmospheric black metal project, Panopticon, was from an interview he did with
Decibel Magazine around the time of the release of Autumn Eternal. I immediately connected with Lunn on multiple
levels, and admired the way he approached black metal and music in general.
Some examples of this were how he mentioned writing lyrics for his songs in the
places that inspired the music, by walking through the woods, immersed in
“space and solitude.” I also respected Lunn’s sort of auteur approach to his
music, writing and performing much of what is on each album himself. To convey
the scope of this, on the most recent double album, the subject of this review,
Lunn was responsible for guitars (acoustic, electric, baritone acoustic,
resonator), bass (acoustic, 4 and 8 string electric), 5 string banjo, lap
steel, drums and percussion, keys, mandolin, harmonica, sung and screamed
vocals, choirs, accordion, orchestra bells, and software instruments (taken
from Metalinjection.net). To say that he is an impressive multi-instrumentalist
would be quite the understatement. However, Panopticon is not, and never has
been, about impressing people. So, what is it about, and does The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless
Wilderness stack up to Lunn’s previous work?
The short answer to the latter is a resounding yes. I
found Scars to be the most
thought-out, emotionally invested, and passionately driven record (I will refer
to both parts as one album from now on, as that is how I view them, though
beyond reference I will distinguish the two in analysis) that Lunn has ever
created. If there is one thing that Panopticon has consistently accomplished,
it is the ability to immerse the listener in an atmosphere that feels unique,
genuine, and driven with heart. However,
Scars, unlike previous albums,
seems to me to be the first that has truly transported me to an environment. I
find myself closing my eyes and opening them to the wilderness that Lunn evokes
and laments, be it Appalachian, Norwegian, or the Kentucky forests of his
upbringing. I feel them. That is the mark of powerful music.
As mentioned briefly above, because this is a review
about a double album, I will make the distinction from this point and give my
thoughts on them separately, but it should be made clear that I do not view
them as separate pieces. Both parts of Scars
simply present different sonic perspectives of the same subject matter, and
there is still a consistent fluidity throughout. The subject matter, by the
way, biases my opinion of the album quite a bit, but not to the point of
blinding me to the actual music. I’ve heard plenty of music damning the systematic
destruction of what is colloquially referred to as the “natural world” or
“nature” (erroneous in its perception of separation or removal), and still have
it be music that I couldn’t get into. Scars, however, does not need to rely upon a
message to carry its weight, it only benefits from it.
Pt. I
While Panopticon has always cultivated a unique sound
within black metal, Lunn has found ways to stay true to certain black metal
roots. Part one of Scars conveys this
well, with each guitar riff and wail sounding like a cold wind upon northern
trees and snow-covered crags. They in no way feel re-hashed or common, though.
Panopticon’s ability to introduce other elements not usually integrated in this
genre solves that, and his songwriting capability prevents any staleness from
occurring regarding the black metal elements, as well.
The first track, “Watch the Lights Fade,” lulls the
listener in with sounds of fire crackling accompanying a rich instrumental. I
imagine the scent of woodsmoke and the dancing light on the walls of a cabin at
night, the wintry forest beyond. Suddenly, the echoes of an owl resonate in the
distance, somewhere lurking in the dark trees, silence approaches, and then the
cymbals crash and the listener is cast into the sullen riff of “En hvit ravns død.”
This track is scathing and immense, and its outro with the violin and fading
voices is enough to bring people to their knees. The next track, “Blåtimen,” focuses more on soaring guitar notes
accompanied with blast beats. This is the point where I would typically
criticize the drums, as they are not pronounced in the mix. However, this is
one of the few occasions where I think it works rather well, and overly prominent
drums would detract from the music. With “Sheep in Wolves Clothing,” the
tremolo picking and intensity of the drums is pronounced, and it reminds me a
bit of the intensity on Roads to the
North. “A Ridge Where the Tall Pines Once Stood” begins with an acoustic
guitar passage, interweaved with sounds of loons calling forth. Lunn then reads
a passage by Sigurd Olson. The track then breathes deep with another gorgeous
violin section. The transition from this to “En generell avsky” is wonderfully
jarring, as the beginning of this track is one of the most discordant pieces of
the entire album. The track continues in a blistering yet sinister crawl all
the way until the final drawn and resonating notes, and is one of my favorites
that Part I has to offer. “The Singing Wilderness” takes a relatively slower
approach, and gives the cavernous vocals and melodic guitar compositions space
to breathe. “Slow Burdened Branches” begins with a poignant spoken word, then
delves into perhaps the most melancholic brutal sections of Part One, with the
driving force being a simple yet powerful four-note climb repeating alongside
the drums and vocals, which is eventually accompanied by further shredding
guitar work, and builds upon itself wonderfully. The ending of this track is
logically the climax of emotional weight for Part One, and as it softens, you
can almost feel the snow falling on the pines, see the clouds sunlit with
pallid light, see the smoke rising slowly from the chimney, hear the soft river
upon the rocks, hear the birds singing briefly, only to alight, and perhaps
never return.
Pt. II
Part Two sees a dramatic shift for Scars, with each song being
bluegrass/Americana. Lunn has always shown that these elements, instead of
starkly opposing or contradicting black metal’s sound, complement and even
exist within similar realms of atmosphere and sorrow and wrath. However, this
is the first time that Panopticon has distilled these genres down and separated
them. Some have criticized this decision, stating that the elements worked
better in coalescence, a critique that is fair, to be sure. That being said, I
still think that this dichotomy works, as Lunn doesn’t lean too heavily upon
either side to the point of relying upon it. He exudes both the fury and calm
contemplation with equal emotional depth and proficiency, and therefore can separate these elements out without
forsaking a sense of quality.
The first track, “The Moss Beneath the Snow,” opens
with the sound of water, and an ambient drone. Clean guitars enter, and it is
clear that a change in tone has occurred. Footsteps in leaves and forest litter
can be heard briefly. The transition to distortion six minutes in, with the
high-pitch guitar wailing in the foreground of dense strumming and cymbals
crashing, is structured in such a satisfying way after the build. It reminded
me of that feeling that bands like Tool or Gojira can conjure with the structured
layering in their songwriting. The song then softens once more, coming back to
the original guitar lines, but with added slide now introduced. It feels lush
and sorrowful. The vocals finally come in at around 9:30, and emerge with a
somber and haunting aura, “the final snow has fallen…the north wind fell silent.” The track ends with the twirling call
of a whippoorwill.
The next track, “The Wandering Ghost,” has a more
upbeat, twangy, ragged tone to it. Lunn tells the harrowing story of a man who
drifted away from his home in the hills looking for work, and finds it in an
industrial factory, but ends up taking to drink and having his humanity slowly
drift away with his memory of home, “he died from a broken heart from no
mountains in the distance…sometimes you’ll see him on a darkened road, his
lonely ghost wandering home.”
The beginning vocal melody of “Four Walls of Bone” reminds me of “Snuff” by Slipknot, although
it is a better song. The use of mandolin strumming alongside banjo, accordion,
acoustic guitar, and the sullen vocal melodies is excellent. My favorite line
in the song is “dreams are nothing more than sleep.”
The following track, “A Cross Abandoned,” is the
quietest and most ambient so far. “Beast Rider” has a wonderful guitar melody.
Lunn’s voice is austere, and the transition into the next track, “Not Much Will
Change When I’m Gone,” carries on a similar, yet markedly different guitar
melody. It provides the songs with a seamless flow. The use of reverb with the
guitars in this song also gives it an ethereal feeling. “Echoes in the Snow”
has more of a bluegrass feel to it, and Lunn utilizes a gravelly vocal style in
this song as well, though it is not overbearing. It doesn’t necessarily
contradict the tone of the album, and it adds some refreshing diversity without
straying too far.
The only song that didn’t quite do it for me on Part
Two is “The Itch.” I have always been one that has enjoyed Panopticon’s social
commentary, but to me this song felt a bit forced considering the rest of the
album. It isn’t completely unfitting, but to me this song has a lack of
subtlety that simply does not flow with the others. There are still parts of
the song that I enjoy, such as the lines like “…your logic paper thin, just
like your skin seems to be,” “…it’s time to take responsibility, instead of
passing blame for the heritage of shit that we pass on,” and “…stop trying to make
fine art from the lines in the sand that we’ve drawn,” all of which are
brilliant. The harmonica is also really well done here. So, as far as this
review goes, I cannot really say that the negatives are wholly negative.
“At the Foot of the Mountain” has some great, slow
banjo playing on it, especially the slide work. The violin in the song is also
very patiently and slowly integrated, much to the song’s benefit. I’m not a
huge fan of the backing vocals on this one, but this is a minor problem that is
not detrimental to it as a whole.
The closing track, “The Devil Walked the Woods” has an
almost deranged-sounding banjo line, with the punch of the song being when the
man gets home, “he passed the mirror in the hall, a familiar sight to see…in
the reflection it was me.” While this isn’t a terrible song, I was a little
disappointed that it was the closing track. I feel as though it doesn’t fit as
something that sums up this deeply emotional and vast, somber journey. I am not
entirely unhappy with the decision,
it just always strikes me as a bit of a let-down. Regardless of this, Part Two
of Scars is a testament to Lunn’s
ability to focus solely on folk or bluegrass and still write excellent music.
What Scars does
best, in my opinion, is give meaning to its presentation as a duality through
the emotions it evokes. This is not just some superfluous musical
experimentation. Lunn very clearly shows us the complexity and diversity of
feeling and emotion that is involved in loving something so intensely, and what
it feels to have what you loved disrespected, neglected, and actively
demolished while you witness it. From the screeching, yet melodic fury of Part One,
to the calm, contemplative, yet lyrically pummeling approach of Part Two, this
album encapsulates the experience and atmosphere of helpless loss. It is at
once the power of cherishing something, and also the power of having what you
cherish be decimated. This album is meditative ferocity. This is music that is
powerfully blunt, uncompromising in its honesty, and cathartic beyond words.
Lunn has never produced a bad album, or even a mediocre album, and I am
thankful that I was able to discover Panopticon when I did. The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless Wilderness is and will be a defining
work, not only for Panopticon, but for black metal in general.
