There is a word in Welsh, “hiraeth,” that resists simple translation. It is often rendered as “homesickness,” but that English term feels thin, inadequate. Hiraeth is a deeper ache, a more spiritual affliction. It is a nostalgia not just for a place, but for a time, a feeling, a version of oneself that is irretrievably lost. It is a longing, tinged with grief, for a home to which one can never return, a home that perhaps never truly existed in the first place.

This feeling, this specific gravity of loss, is not exclusive to the Welsh. In my own Ukrainian, we have words that orbit the same dark star of memory. We speak of туга (“tuha”) or журба (“zhurba”), a soul-heavy sorrow, a profound and wistful yearning often tied to the land itself, to a past trampled by the relentless march of history.

It is the sentiment captured in the old folk song, “Hej, Sokoły,” whose alternate title is simply “Longing for Ukraine” (Zal za Ukrainą). In it, a young Cossack bids farewell to his love, but parts “even more sadly with Ukraine,” his homeland. It is a recognition that the deepest partings are not with people, but with the landscapes that shape our souls.

It is this universal geography of longing that Austin Lunn, the sole creator of the North American musical project Panopticon, has spent nearly two decades mapping. An unlikely cartographer of such emotions—a metal musician from Kentucky, now residing in the vast, cold expanses of Minnesota—Lunn has consistently used his art to explore the intricate connections between place, politics, and the self.

On August 15, he released two distinct yet complementary albums: the resurrected black metal of ‘Songs of Hiraeth,’ and the pure, melancholic folk of ‘Laurentian Blue.’ The former is an excavation of his own past, while the latter is a gentle reflection on the present, both forming a monument to the powerful, painful beauty of looking back.

An Archaeology of Humanist Black Metal

Panopticon is a paradox. The project is rooted in the sonic vocabulary of black metal, a genre born in the Norwegian chill of the early 1990s and often defined by its misanthropy, nihilism, and anti-religious fury. Yet, from his first recordings, Lunn has subverted these conventions. His work is defiantly humanist, ardently political, and grounded in an anarchist philosophy that champions community, mutual aid, and a deep reverence for the natural world.

The evolution of Panopticon’s lyrical focus traces a compelling path from the societal to the self, from the macro to the micro. Early albums like 2009’s ‘Collapse’ and 2011’s ‘Social Disservices’ were blistering, direct assaults on external systems of oppression: the surveillance state, capitalism, mass incarceration. With his 2012 masterpiece, ‘Kentucky,’ Lunn narrowed his gaze, focusing on the specific struggles of his home state. The album was a searing indictment of the coal industry’s destructive impact, a lament for a ravaged landscape and the people whose lives and labor were consumed by it.

In subsequent years, the lens turned further inward. Albums like 2021’s ‘…And Again Into the Light’ and 2023’s ‘The Rime of Memory’ began to explore intensely personal territory: the anxieties of fatherhood, the quiet battles with mental health, the slow, humbling process of aging, and the necessity of self-care as a prerequisite for caring for others. This trajectory reveals an artist coming to a profound realization: the political and the personal are not separate spheres. The struggle for a better world begins with the struggle to be a better, more whole person.

This journey is mirrored in the music itself, which Lunn has described as “regional metal.” His sound is not merely influenced by his surroundings; it is an attempt to give them voice. The move from the rolling hills of Kentucky to the stark forests of Minnesota precipitated a palpable shift in his music. The bluegrass-inflected rage of Kentucky gave way to the colder, more atmospheric melancholy of albums like ‘Roads to the North’ and ‘Autumn Eternal.’ The music became a living document of his internal and external geography.

This is most evident in his signature integration of Appalachian folk instrumentation. The banjo, fiddle, and acoustic guitar are not affectations; their inclusion is an ideological act. Lunn reclaims these quintessential American sounds from the realms of commercial nostalgia and right-wing appropriation, re-centering them in a context of working-class history, ecological consciousness, and profound connection to the land.

The Album That Never Happened: ‘Songs of Hiraeth’

The story behind ‘Songs of Hiraeth’ is central to its power. It is not a collection of new compositions, but an act of musical archaeology. The entire album consists of material written and recorded between 2009 and 2011, a period Lunn recalls as one of intense creativity and personal freedom.

These seven tracks were originally intended for split releases with other bands—a common practice in the underground metal scene—but for various reasons, those collaborations never came to fruition. The songs were left behind, “forgotten and lost in the shuffle,” residing on an old computer for over a decade.

The album’s creation, then, is a literal manifestation of its title. In resurrecting these songs, Lunn is engaging in a direct dialogue with his younger self. “It has been an enjoyable project going back into the sessions,” he wrote in the album’s liner notes, “revisiting that nostalgic time in our life together.”

He speaks of being in his twenties, with no children or major responsibilities, traveling with his wife, Bekah Lunn, and seeing the world for the first time. This process—of looking back with a mix of fondness and melancholy, of longing for the unburdened perspective of a past self—is the very essence of hiraeth. The album is not just about longing; it is an act of longing, an effort to finally give a home to these orphaned songs.

Much of the album’s emotional landscape was shaped by Lunn’s early travels in Northern Europe, particularly Norway. This influence is not just audible but visible. The stunning, stark photography that adorns the album was taken by Bekah Lunn on medium format film during a camping tour through the Norwegian countryside, in areas like Sunndalsøra and Drammen.

The song titles themselves chart a course through this terrain: ‘The Road to Bergen,’ ‘From Bergen to Jotunheimen.’ The journey is both literal and metaphorical, expanding the concept of “regional metal” to encompass a transient, almost nomadic, sense of place.

Explicitly framed as a sequel to his 2010 album, ‘On the Subject of Mortality,’ ‘Songs of Hiraeth’ aims to renew the “dreamy atmospheres and gut wrenching melodies” of that era with the benefit of hindsight and superior production. With the help of engineer Spenser Morris, who remixed and mastered the old sessions, Lunn is deliberately filling a perceived gap in his own history, making his artistic timeline whole.

A View and a Cleaving

The album’s lead single, ‘The White Mountain View,’ serves as a powerful gateway into this rediscovered world. At nearly 11 minutes long, the track is a sprawling, immersive epic characteristic of Panopticon’s style. It unfolds not as a conventional song but as a journey, its passages of furious, blizzard-like metal giving way to moments of breathtaking melodic clarity, mirroring the overwhelming scale and austere beauty of the mountain landscapes that inspired it.

In a world dominated by fleeting singles, it is a demand for patience, an invitation to get lost. Notably, the project’s aesthetic is conveyed primarily through its sound and the evocative still photography of its packaging; there is no cinematic music video for the song, a choice that centers the listener’s focus on the auditory and imaginative experience.

Perhaps the most significant aspect of this release is what accompanies it. On the same day ‘Songs of Hiraeth’ is released, Lunn will also release ‘Laurentian Blue,’ a full-length album of pure, melancholic folk music. This dual-album strategy marks a pivotal moment in Panopticon’s evolution.

For years, the project’s defining trait was the seamless integration of its disparate influences. Albums like ‘Kentucky’ and ‘…And Again Into the Light’ were celebrated for their ability to weave black metal and Appalachian folk together, often within the space of a single song.

The 2018 double album, ‘The Scars of Man on the Once Nameless Wilderness,’ began a process of separation, presenting one disc of metal and one of folk. The 2025 releases complete this cleaving. By presenting a “pure” black metal album and a “pure” folk album, Lunn makes a quiet but powerful statement.

Each facet of his artistic identity, once intertwined, is now so fully developed that it can stand alone, strong and confident. It is a shift from hybridity to a diptych, a testament to his mastery of both languages. ‘Laurentian Blue,’ described as a companion to ‘…And Again Into the Light,’ promises to continue that record’s deeply personal and reflective folk explorations.

The Placid Waters of ‘Laurentian Blue’

Where ‘Songs of Hiraeth’ is a storm of rediscovered fury and youthful longing, ‘Laurentian Blue’ is its calm, reflective counterpart. This album is a deep dive into the folk tradition that has always been the soul of Panopticon, now presented pure and undiluted.

The title itself is a direct reference to the Laurentian Upland region of North America, grounding the music in the specific geography of Lunn’s adopted home in the Minnesota wilderness. If ‘Kentucky’ was the sound of Appalachian mountains and coal dust, ‘Laurentian Blue’ is the sound of vast northern forests, cold, clear lakes, and the quiet solitude of a life lived in deep connection with nature.

The music eschews metal entirely, focusing instead on a rich tapestry of acoustic instrumentation. Gentle finger-picked guitar melodies, melancholic strings, and atmospheric textures create a soundscape that is both spacious and deeply intimate.

Described as a companion to the intensely personal ‘…And Again Into the Light,’ it continues that record’s explorations of fatherhood, mental health, and the search for peace in a turbulent world. It is the sound of the internal world, a stark contrast to the mountainous, external landscapes of ‘Hiraeth.’

The songs feel less like compositions and more like meditations—on the changing seasons, the passage of time, and the quiet beauty that can be found in stillness. Together, the two albums offer a complete picture of the artist: one looking back at the fire of the past, the other contemplating the quiet embers of the present.

Conclusion

As with much of Panopticon’s existence, the project’s live incarnation remains a rare and special occasion. In July, Panopticon performed at the Fire In The Mountains festival in Montana, followed by an appearance at Lovefest in Serbia in August. This scarcity transforms each performance from a mere concert into a significant, communal event, a pilgrimage for a dedicated international following.

In a world of digital dislocation, contested identities, and relentless forward momentum, an album about a complex, archaic-sounding emotion like “hiraeth” feels unexpectedly vital. Lunn’s project is a radical act of grounding. It is about the painstaking work of excavating a personal past, of reconnecting with the physical landscapes that shape us, and of honoring the passage of time with clear-eyed reverence.

The “туга” that echoes in my own cultural memory, a sorrow born of the vast, blood-soaked steppes of Eastern Europe, finds a strange and familiar resonance in the “hiraeth” of a Welsh word, adopted by an American artist, inspired by the mountains of Norway. It is a powerful reminder that this geography of longing is a map we all, in some way, share.

Panopticon’s dual releases are more than just albums; they are a profound acknowledgment that to understand who we are, we must make peace with the ghosts of who we were, and with the homes—real or imagined—to which we can never truly return.