For something so murky and distant, Vincent Caylet's music is remarkably attention-grabbing. Working as Cankun, he mixes loops and echoes into layers of intoxicating fog, but there’s always at least one sound inside his swirl that catches your focus. It could be a chopped-up snare hit, a subliminal bass throb, or a seemingly-random guitar chord that gradually becomes a tune’s heartbeat. Whatever he chooses, these guiding sounds propel his music forward, injecting a definite pulse into what could easily become flatlined mush.
Those versed in muffled, retro-leaning “hypnagogic pop”-- particularly as purveyed by the Not Not Fun label-- might find Culture of Pink rather familiar. But Caylet morphs that style into something less like VHS-dubbed memories-of-memories than an underwater DJ set. That’s partially due to how rarely he settles into a static groove. With music this loop-heavy, it can be tempting to ride waves out toward the horizon. When done well, that choice can pay off-- Sun Araw’s best work is proof. More often it results in lazy filler, a trap Caylet refuses to fall into. Even when a song sticks with one tempo or timbre, he rotates and cross-cuts his churning sounds to keep them in constant motion.
In other ways, though, Culture of Pink has a lot in common with Sun Araw’s gripping grooves. Both acts are partial to tropical atmospheres, using reggae-ish guitar, dub-like bass, and deep-end beats to conjure a steamy, sweaty rainforest feel, albeit filtered through the lens of psychotropic enhancements. Caylet’s best dub mutations are so humid you can practically feel the mist wafting through his sonic jungle. On “Acinom”, languid, overlapping guitars roll across rattling percussion like a stream coasting over rocks, while on “Soul Brothers”, Caylet makes a laid-back swing urgent by flooding it in reverberating tones.
If you’re a fan of reggae and dub, one question pops to mind when listening to Culture of Pink: why opt for a blurry photocopy when you can have the real thing? For me, the answer is easy-- the blur here is just as appealing as the reggae/dub structures, and just as integral. I can’t imagine these tunes without their sonic density; it’s not just in the thick production, but also in the way Caylet places sounds next to each other, the way he transitions from one passage to another, even in the way he plays each instrument and inflects each note. That’s strongest on the album’s longest song, the seven-minute “Why Do You Laugh?” Though its elements are simple-- guitar flickers, bass plunges, a slow, sparse vocal-- Caylet makes them into reflections of themselves and each other, creating a hazy hall of mirrors. As the tune slowly drifts into abstraction, it becomes a microcosm of his most enticing strength: a knack for creating memorable moments rather than just evoking them.
