*Crashes* (1999) was our next studio album proper following our collaboration with John Fahey (*The Epiphany of Glenn Jones*). It contains several of my favorite pieces from the period, including a couple that Fahey nixed from the *Epiphany* sessions. I consider it one of our most fully realized (I daren’t say “mature”) efforts. (One former Cul de Sac-er considers it the best thing we thing ever did.) It’s been out-of-print and unavailable for the better part of two decades, one reason (perhaps) that it’s not more widely known. - Glenn Jones 4/2023

This, the fourth studio album from Cul de Sac, (not counting "I Don't Want to Go to Bed, which is an album of songs from rehearsals) is one of the quintessential "night time" albums in my opinion. Listening to it conjures up memories of late night drives along RT 128, here in the band's hometown of Boston. Songs like "A Voice Through a Cloud", "Father Silence" and "On the Roof of the World" seem to exist in their own perpetual night. I am thrilled that the band has allowed it to become available again here. - Heath Finnie 4/2023

Review from Pitchfork:

"When I listen to Crashes to Light, Minutes to Its Fall I can see the projected stars and hear a booming narrator's voice directing me to the Andromoda galaxy; I can taste the dry- cap belches and catch the glowing exit signs moving in circles, leaving crimson trails behind. It's a wonderful thing to find a band like Cul De Sac, who see music as a journey or, if you like, as a trip. One to sign up for." - 5/4/1999

Review From The Wire on "A Voice Through a Cloud":

"A Voice Through A Cloud" is the album's most beautiful moment and is assembled around one of the group's most expressively pliant riffs. Named after the last book by the young star-crossed English author Denton Welch, it details the accident that, like William Burroughs's shooting of Joan Vollmer, made him a writer and eventually caused his early death, aged only 31. The track is mapped according to the structure of the book, with guitarist Glenn Jones wheeling in with a picked riff that, subtly treated, sounds irrepressibly alive and inquisitive, as he reconfigures syntax lifted from John Fahey's Takoma recordings to fit the topography of a prewar England. As the track progresses, and Welch's life-force fades, the bass drops to a weak repeating pulse while Jones's riff slowly dissolves in a pool of reflective analogue electricity, until all that's left is a sad shadow. It's one of the most compassionate portraits of the joy and pain of another human being ever sketched in strings. (DK) - 12/2004