An instrumental band with a more or less rock setup can go in a few different directions. Some improvise, emphasizing interaction between players in a manner approximating jazz. Some focus on specific rock signifiers and exaggerate certain aspects. And then some go off to a more impressionistic place, manipulating texture and mood as if composing a score for a film. Cul de Sac is a restless, searching band that reimagines itself for each new project, so it's no surprise that they've dabbled in all these at one time or another.
Here in 2003, with their new record Death of the Sun, Cul de Sac is firmly entrenched in the impressionistic mood-based sphere. This record finds them adding two new members-- John LeMaster on bass and violin and Jake Trussell on turntables and electronics-- and along with the sounds brought by them, guitarist and leader Glenn Jones is more freely experimenting; his hand spends about as much time on a mouse as it does a fretboard. In large part due to Jones' shifting interests, Death of the Sun is very much a product of the studio: old 78s are sampled and looped, odd drones that sound anything but live creep in and out, field recordings form the structural backbone. I'm sure they have a solid plan for taking this music on the road, but Death of the Sun doesn't sound like something made by getting four or five people together in a room. It sounds labored over, thought through, and pieced together very carefully.
In addition to the electronic experimentation, the album is also very much a drummer's album, and Jonathan Proudman's consistently rich and nuanced playing could be described as the lead instrument. "Bellevue Bridge" is a track that started with a field recording Glen Jones made underneath a bridge near his hometown, and though the eerie sounds of cars passing overhead and water rippling below are intact, the percussion is what's most evocative. Alternating blocky mallet hits with shimmering cymbal washes, Proudman effectively conveys the menace and wonder one feels when visiting a strange childhood haunt. "Turok, Son of Stone" is even more percussion-heavy, with Proudman's tribal floor-tom patterns functioning somewhere on the level of Mickey Hart's score to Apocalypse Now, signaling the approach of something deadly. The moaning, wordless sound of a woman's voice ups the tension further.
The best songs on Death of the Sun are the ones that are built around Cul de Sac's new interest in samples. "Dust of Butterflies" is assembled around a loop of an ancient 78 recording of a tune called "Creole Love Call", a haunting clump of sound that's difficult to place but whose emotional content is clear. The apparition of the sample's central riff, when doubled with a parallel violin line played by LeMaster, works against Jones' plucked nylon string guitar, bits of glitchy static, and Trussel's Melodica. "Bamboo Rockets, Half Lost in Nothingness" is mostly a feature for Jones' electric sitar work, but as he spins out a buzzing melody the sound of South American rainforest recordings flicker past, fixing the sound of the music in space.
The closing "I Remember Nothing More" is the capper, a breathtaking piece built from a sample of an old Cajun 78, with a ghost of a woman's voice singing "Salangadou" along with Cul de Sac on guitar, bass and drums. There's an interesting story about how Glen Jones came across the record, but the liner notes tell it well enough. Suffice to say that Cul de Sac have built a stunning track around the woman singing from the crackly slab of shellac. Cul de Sac went out on a limb a bit with Death of the Sun, venturing into unfamiliar sampled-based electronic territory, where tracks are layered gradually over time. It could have been embarrassing. Instead, they've made one of their finest records.
