CUL DE SAC - Ecim (1992)

In 2007, among a run of excellent reissues (from the avant-wave of "Soldier Talk" and "Y", to the songwriting masterpieces of Zevon and Cohen, to the legendary albums of the Alan Parsons Project), "Ecim", the fabulous debut by Cul De Sac, couldn't be left out. There are several good reasons for this: first of all, to address the record's poor availability; secondly, to restore light and splendor to one of the (still underrated) milestones of 90s rock. Last but not least, for the sake of completeness. At Strange Attractors, the label that took on the burden of the operation – whether for producing the solo works of the band's guitarist, Glenn Jones, or for its acid-lysergic bent, or for its affiliation with rock built on overtones and free improvisation, or for its continuation of the Fahey-style "American primitive" tradition – only the Cul De Sac debut was missing to complete the picture.

Said and done. "Ecim" is back among us, with its magnificent artwork, its curious harmonic approach (admittedly naive too), its strange – yet essential – blend of "nailed-it-first-take" jamming and alien exploration, of divertissement and applied avant-garde, of highly original compositions and elegant homages to the masters of the form.

"Stranger At Coney Island", with its spectral electronic scenery, fingerpicking figures and acoustic glissando, and an abrupt break that Faust would be proud of, is one of its most significant tracks. "Homunculus", its demonic counterpart (a long nightmare built on electrified distortion, noise degenerations worthy of Can running loose, deviant improvisations over a sly groove), refines the idea further. Likewise the opener, entrusted to "Death Kit Train" which – once again – sets up a groove excessively charged with rhythmic tension and dissonant tremors in the vein of Velvet Underground, a sturdy latex that contracts, rears up, and goes back to muttering restlessly and tribally.

Another facet of the record is represented by its Persian-Indian-tinged laments. "Lauren's Blues" is a chant on a sustained note, at mezzo piano, with the ghost of Ravenstine stamping impatiently, trapped inside the synth. "The Moon Scolds The Morning Star", another gem, combines quivering synth sine waves with a ceremonial accompaniment, Eastern scales against free-form counterpoints. "The Invisible Worm" is a guitar lament that lays out a kind of instrumental songwriting through chord variations and eccentric harmonies (and the synth, as usual, comes in whenever it pleases and does whatever it wants, even going so far as to mimic a theremin).

The third and final thematic area of the album, as already mentioned, concerns covers or free (but respectful) memorials. First among them is the reworking of "The Portland Cement Factory At Monolith, California", by the great Fahey, father and mentor to the whole band (though with an obvious particular nod to guitarist Glenn Jones). The guitar touch, besides being nearly as skillful and noble as the master's own, manages to make room for the rhythm section and keyboard, which here becomes a sulfurous, futuristic, para-industrial exhalation (this time blending in with the cement factories the title alludes to).

The now-famous "Song To The Siren" by the ultra-cosmic bard Tim Buckley is another fine mimetic rendering marked by knowing respect and a search for creative interstices (perhaps deliberately left untouched by the original author). "Nico's Dream", true to its title, pays tribute in its own way to the splendid chanteuse: field recordings, tribal and baroque drumming, college-pop chords rendered surreal by a keyboard that turns into a whistle, a fife, a funneled drone, right up to pure radiation and concrete noise.

In the form of a portfolio, or a sampler-style showcase, this is a work that keeps slipping away (even today). Even for those musicians (and producers) who have seen, in its amused eccentricity, its tortuous schema-free design, its repetitive yet unpredictable structure, the beginnings of trends, compositional approaches, an avant-garde style, even a sense of class and snobbery. The compositions are superb – even if intricate and convoluted to the point of making you dizzy – and all brimming with an enjoyable freshness. Robin Amos's fabulous electronic apparatus steals the show from everyone, injecting a dose of humanity (by turns mocking, arty, depraved, depending on the mood) into an already more-than-memorable foundation. The three bonus tracks included (“Negligee,” the perfect ghost track, is a microscopic loop-collage of guitar, music box and bass scales; “Cul De Sade” ups the self-irony with hard riffs and distorted sheets of noise; “The Bee Who Would Not Work” mashes up dream-pop and symphonic prog) remain – inevitably – an almost dispensable addition.

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30/05/2007