Right up until Before the Sinking Plains, it was normal for Lynn Wright to work on the periphery. Whether on television productions or as a sought-after sound expert for other musicians – Wright was never really in the spotlight. This background fits the sound of his debut album. The eight almost meditative compositions bring together trails of reverb that stretch beyond the horizon. In this scenario – as urgent as it is fleeting – guitar loops full of comforting warmth and gentle optimism unfold, alongside sparingly placed synth accents and Wright’s
vocals, which penetrate the withered present through a time-space continuum that has been thrown out of joint. With Lynn Wright, everything feels further away than ever before. You could call it ambient. Shoegaze revisited in an Americana fever dream. Or simply a helping hand in navigating the unimaginable realities of everyday life. Wright transforms the longing for the sacred into a completely unsuspecting lubricant for letting go. And when his quiet miniatures wind their way around the disused rocket launch pad and let the porous glittering dust of reddish-brown rust dance through the air, the world is suddenly a little better for a few minutes. More bearable. One’s outlook broadens. And on the periphery, hope is secretly planning its comeback.
