The lost Dutch physician finally makes his debut after years of rallying behind the banner of the Martineau Syndicate. Shrouded in mystery, even Soulaway weren’t privy to the location of Crash’s first solo swoop of the axe - indeed, all instruments and production duties (even down to the dogsbody tape techs) were undertaken by Locus himself, leaving little for the mixing boys back at the record ranch. Such paranoia leaves me feeling a little delicate as the first track (of 3) opens into a wide dispersal of metric light. Traded for Webs & Hangars introduces a 3 point chant based around Merrick’s Lost Solace era of duly lengthening boughs - Locus is quick to turn the tables on the method though, deleting much of the lower end sound in readiness for the maddening foot stomp to come. Suddenly you relax, ease back into your chair as if it were a soothing coma - this is Debris music at its best - the constant G flat, the monotonous beat, the flakey wire cord crackling like a dysfunctional neon tube strobing to the pedestrians.
After track one disappears into silence of the room, Tsar Tsar loops into your audio view, full of latent promise of industrial cities on the collapse and the washing winds of leaves as they escape their autumn enslavers. By now Crash’s years behind Martineau’s mixing desk have not been in vain as much of the euthoria is replaced so delicately by a brooding swelter of bass, bringing on the kind of lull you feel when your dreamself dips mid flight in a moment of panic, reality setting fire to those imaginary wings. “How does he make it so sinister?” you ask yourself, flattening the palm of your hand against your temple as you think about ringing someone for company.
By the time the closing track, Stale Aquantances strides on, you already expect the rush that the pre-programmed synth beats hint at in their crescendo - who cares if the Syndicate is broken now, when Locus has the promise of generations to come backed by lost generations past - gun clicks in the barrel, venom in the ears and feet leaving the dance floor is the only way to describe what the Martineau could never achieve - a constant brick wall of attention, a cyclone of doubt in the face of overwhelming distinction.
In 35 minutes of Sterile Mile, Crash is now the audio equivalent of rush hour outlawed, where you wake up at the steering wheel 3 seconds before the cliff edge. Ludicrous perfection resonates for hours after.