Today I want to leave this note here — more of an inner monologue than a review. Because when you listen to Sunset by Yal!X, words stop being mere descriptions and turn into an attempt to touch the space that unfolds behind the sound.
The track begins almost like a dream: the first moments feel like the breath of the cosmos, something distant, like the rustle of stars scattered across the black canvas of the sky. There’s a hint of retrowave in this opening, a faint echo of the 80s — but it isn’t nostalgic. It feels more like a memory that doesn’t belong to me, yet one I recognize, as if I had once lived it in some parallel life. And in that strange familiarity, a quiet trust in the track is born.
The piano in Sunset carries a deep, but never heavy, melancholy. Not sadness in its classic sense — more like a soft inner shadow that makes the world richer. The notes remind me of raindrops stubbornly sliding down a window, leaving behind trails you could gaze at endlessly. And strangely enough, this melancholy doesn’t weigh you down; it lets you breathe deeper, nudges you to dream.
What also stands out is the absence of direct storytelling — what remains is pure mood. The vocal doesn’t try to be the main character; it’s more like an instrument, a breath. If someone could sing not words, but emotions — it would sound exactly like this. There’s something almost mystical here: you feel the presence of a voice, but it doesn’t lead you anywhere. It simply holds you, allows you to sink further in.
And then I realize: this track feels impossible to listen to “the end.” Because it doesn’t really end — it lingers on in my breathing, in the silence of the room, in the evening sky beyond the window. Like the sunset itself, it doesn’t vanish at once; it stretches across memory, in the glow on the glass, in the quiet darkness.
If this atmosphere speaks to you, take a look at Deep Rain by Blackbird — there you’ll find another world of melancholy.
