Red Sun is a record about survival, transformation, and finding meaning in the vast unknown. A man falls from the sky into an endless desert, where he is captured, exiled, and ultimately revered. His journey plays out across three songs, each reflecting a stage in his fate—arrival, struggle, and surrender—mirroring the shifting sands of the world around him.
1. Ashes
The album begins in slow motion, like waking up under an unforgiving sun. A vast, ambient intro builds in layers, evoking the first rays of light creeping over the horizon. But the peace doesn’t last.
A jagged, almost violent riff crashes in, throwing the listener into the disorienting reality of the desert. The music twists and turns, unpredictable, reflecting the harshness of the world. This is where our protagonist first encounters the alien village—massive dark structures rising from the sands, centered around an evergreen tree that shouldn’t exist here. The villagers, small and unfamiliar, seize him immediately. Their judgment is swift: he is locked away, a stranger with no place among them.
As the track nears its end, the chaos gives way to something looser, dreamlike. A Floydian jam unfolds, drifting through space and time, as if the protagonist is slipping into delirium. He is alone, left to the silence of his prison, wondering if this place will be his grave.
2. Red Sun
The gates open. He is exiled, thrown back into the desert with nothing but the heat and the distant hum of shifting sands. Musically, the track slows, allowing space to breathe. It’s meditative, psychedelic—built on floating chords that shimmer like a mirage. The structure is fluid, blending the familiar with the unexpected, much like the protagonist’s disoriented wandering.
Then, the ground trembles. A shadow moves beneath the dunes. The music tightens, tension rising. A giant sandworm, a monstrous force of nature, emerges. At this moment, the protagonist gives up—arms outstretched, he is ready to be swallowed whole. But something primal takes over. In a sudden burst of motion, he fights and strikes a fatal blow. The music soars, a triumphant moment carried by a ’70s-inspired guitar solo. Rain falls for the first time.
Apart from small drops drilling into the dry sand, the desert stills. And then, a new sound—voices, approaching rapidly. The villagers have witnessed his victory. But this time, they do not cast him out. Instead, they lift him up, chanting in reverence. He is brought back to the village, and over time, becomes one of them. Beneath the evergreen tree, he finds a home.
3. Embers
Life in the village is fleeting, yet full. The protagonist embraces their culture, learns their ways. The opening of Embers reflects this moment—catchy yet intricate, with rhythmic shifts that keep the momentum moving forward.
But time is relentless. The people who once surrounded him begin to fade. Their lives are short, burning bright before flickering out. The music begins to fracture, dissolving into an eerie, experimental section filled with choirs, analog synths, and slide guitar. The warmth of companionship is replaced with echoes of what once was.
Grief takes hold. The music softens, becomes sparse. The protagonist, now alone, stops resisting the inevitable. He returns to the tree—the one constant in a world that has changed again and again. Leaning against its trunk, he closes his eyes, surrendering to the desert’s embrace.
As the final notes drift into silence, the story reaches its end. The tree remains, standing tall against the sands. Time moves on. But his presence, his journey, is woven into the roots of the evergreen tree.
Red Sun is an album of shifting landscapes—musically and thematically. From the harsh, disorienting opening to the psychedelic calm, from the rhythmic pulse of life to the slow fade into the inevitable, it tells a story that lingers long after the final note. Like the desert itself, it is both vast and intimate, unyielding and beautiful.