Cul de Sac: Crashes to Light Minutes to Its Fall

If Pink Floyd had access to modern technology, Philip Glass, and Sonic Youth, then its first and most experimental album, Piper at the Gates of Dawn, would have sounded like Crashes to Light Minutes to Its Fall. On their first album in three years, Cul de Sac take an avant-garde approach to early Floyd and Santana, mixing in a generous dose of synthesizers and an occasional homebuilt electronic contraption. With this approach, Crashes puts the band at the forefront of a legion of musicians who have embraced psychedelic music over the past decade.

The album opens with "Etaoin Shrdlu," a track whose electronic pulses and soft cymbals call to mind "Black Magic Woman." The song doesn't linger too long in 1970 before it begins a slow, insistent synthesizer wail and a series of deftly inserted samples. This combination produces a menace unknown to vintage psychedelia or Thrill Jockey's jazzy lineup. "K" continues that atmosphere, but with a more heavily sampled, almost danceable undercurrent that eventually gives way to spacey chords.

Crashes maintains an even keel before peaking at "Sands of Iwo Jima." This track builds momentum as a sound like falling artillery eclipses Glenn Jones' bluesy guitar. That drone scarcely establishes itself before electronics guru Robin Amos tears it apart to produce a ragged moan. The rest of the song continues Amos' electronics work while reinterpreting Jones' guitar until static and drums take over. Is the song a reflection on Iwo Jima and, if so, what kind of reflection, or is the title as nonsensical as "Etaoin Shrdlu?" The ambiguity is delicious.

My complaints about the band mostly concern their spirit. I have to question a group, no matter how good, whose liner notes consist primarily of convoluted, meaningless poetry. I cringe at cover art almost identical to that of Pulse, an album that proves yet again how far Pink Floyd have fallen from their early years. But these are small complaints—the album sounds great. It's worth a look for post-rockers and maybe even adventurous hippies. (Thirsty Ear)

—Nathan Littlefield

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