When an album like Sentinel by Subscotia lands in your lap, you don’t immediately know what to do with it. First of all, because this isn’t the kind of music you put on to create a “vibe” in the kitchen while the morning coffee brews. No, this is something else. This is a recording of some internal process — the kind where, on the first listen, your ears catch themselves thinking you’re peeking through a keyhole. It’s personal, so personal it almost feels intrusive.

Subscotia, also known as Drew Patrick Campbell, reportedly never planned to release these tracks at all. Originally, this music was meant to stay tucked away in the quiet corners of Counties Wexford and Waterford, where it was born. Apparently, these are the kinds of places that either inspire you or finish you off entirely — the choice is left to whoever comes there looking for themselves.

Drew Patrick Campbell wrote this album while going to therapy, thinking it would never become music for anyone else. The release itself now feels like the final step of that therapy — the last door can be shut, the last plank nailed to the fence, and the road ahead taken with no footprints left behind. I like to think of that as an honest approach. Because how long can we keep pretending that music is always made for someone else?

If you open the window a little wider, Sentinel turns out to be not so much a story about someone processing and letting go of trauma, but more about whether it’s even possible to let it go at all. Otherwise, what’s the point? What are the hours of therapy for, the endless sorting through old memories, the search for that one note that finally releases the tension in your fingers and lets you exhale?

I don’t know if it really works that easily, but Sentinel offers exactly that possibility: each track is an attempt to let go of what clings and cuts, of what keeps dragging you back to places you don’t want to return to. And it’s nothing extravagant — just piano, no words, no vocals — yet by the third or fourth track, it starts to feel like it’s you at the keys, playing for yourself, pulling out everything that’s been buried inside for far too long.

Maybe part of it is that wordless music always cheats a little: you can project your own story onto it, use it as a mirror. Subscotia seems to understand that well, which is probably why these eight pieces are filled with pauses — as if he’s left space for your own thoughts. He’s let go of his part; now it’s your turn.

Emotional Geometry in Eight Movements

The opening track is Sentinel. It sounds like a first breath after a long silence. The piano floats, gently swaying, with rhythmic eddies surfacing along its current — a soft storm within a slow-moving river. Somewhere in between, a faint voice emerges, speeding up and pausing in turns, trailing hints of unease and melancholy.

The second piece, ‘Lament #1 (Apology)’, steps even deeper into exposed territory. The texture thickens, the melody presses through a wintry landscape of muted tones, low‑lying notes, and high‑key sighs. For me, the magic emerges when a pianist embraces the instrument with tenderness. I have heard plenty of recordings where performers hammer the keys, yet a piano—upright or grand—thrives on nuance more than brute volume. Power arrives only when it truly matters; softness carries the rest of the story. Subscotia grasps that truth. Every caressed note in ‘Lament #1 (Apology)’ lands so intimately that my granite‑still face nearly cracks into tears. Composure remains, but the pull feels undeniable.

Rinn Duáin is one of the most absorbing moments of the album. And right after comes Keeper, almost like a sunbeam after a long night. The album’s midpoint, Effigy, is a masterclass in spatial awareness. Here, the echo becomes part of the conversation. It turns into a character of its own — woven from memories, thoughts, doubts. And within that haze, the piano draws a steady, composed line. Arguably the album’s strongest moment.

The second half of Sentinel feels noticeably lighter. Especially in Moher — a track made to let your shoulders drop and finally exhale. Gentle transitions, a lot of light, and gradually, the feeling returns that maybe things can still be okay.

Next comes the familiar ‘(Silver) Cup’, now in a new form. In the original version by Sleeps Under Beams, it sounded different, but here — it feels almost like a revelation. Everything unnecessary has been stripped away, leaving only the core — and it shines. The final track is ‘Zephyr’. It carries a different energy, a different tone. The music gathers pace, a sense of structure emerges, and there’s no trace of the past in it — only the impulse to move forward.

This is an album of radical vulnerability, but it shouldn’t be mistaken for diary-entry solipsism. Campbell’s piano becomes a divining rod, tracing the fault lines between agony and absolution. There’s no lyrical crutch here, no poetic smoke screen — only the raw grammar of hands on keys, translating the unspeakable into something that resonates. Sentinel approaches catharsis with quiet restraint. Instead of building toward a dramatic peak, it slowly unspools, gliding toward a sense of steadiness. By the closing track, the room feels larger, the air lighter, the heart more settled. Subscotia offers a personal ledger of wounds and repairs, then lets go of it — giving listeners the space to find their own way through these sounds.

Play this record during twilight walks, early-morning journaling, or quiet drives along a limestone coast. Let its steady pulse guide your breath. In that communion, healing becomes audible.

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