Call it ambient if you will. I’m fine with it. Long, peaceful, an orchestration for the many sunsets I bleed into on the western coast far above and beyond the sprays and honks of San Francisco, before Orange County came to the Sonoma and Mendocino coast and fenced in the glory, before the cartels took over the mountains for manic weed production surrounded by automatic rifles, barbed wire, booby traps and other things of the Reagan War on Drugs. Dumb. Just a dumb thing to do, hand over vision and replace it with knives and BMWs.
All in all, it’s a tone poem.