Ravedeath, 1972 by Tim Hecker
LABEL: Kranky

It so happened that I received my eagerly awaited press copy of Tim Hecker’s latest album, the obscurely labeled Ravedeath, 1972 during a particularly grey and dismal week here in Seattle (and considering how grey and dismal winters are here, there’s a certain extreme implied in that statement). It went into my laptop and never seemed to stop through four days of looking out windows at rain, pouring over old books, and coffee at 3am. It’s a lightheaded, dreamy album that augments, more than accompanies, those dreamy, lightheaded days of staring out windows for some glimpse of existence.

“Hecker’s genius lies in where to stop the loop,
and how to edit a whole record.”

For all his seniority amongst the electronic genre, Tim Hecker rests firmly within the new echelon of musicians who are rising out from the ambient camp with toolboxes of techniques alongside them, but a keen eye for musicality and composition. Rafael Anton Irisarri, Fennesz, and Lawrence English have been tilting in this direction for years before, but Ravedeath, 1972 is so much more song-oriented than any of these artists, while still relying upon the meticulous sound design and ambient structure Hecker has become known for.

What’s most surprising is how well the album holds up as an entire listen. It seems tight while at the same time flowing and continuative, as if skipping tracks or putting the music down mid-listen would just be a painful halt to an abstract narrative within the swells and drones. By the end, everything feels completed, not drawn out as some ambient records can tend towards. Hecker’s genius lies in where to stop the loop, and how to edit a whole record.

The album is centered upon a recording stint Hecker collected using primarily an organ and a piano, then taken and painstakingly manipulated in the studio environment. Glitchy, dynamic, fuzzy, and impenetrably layered, the record feels a lot like Ben Frost’s Steel Wound record in its direction and process, though with a much more reflective and melancholy atmosphere, with a heavier backdrop of field recordings.

Ravedeath, 1972 is probably the finest way to open up the new year in experimental music. It’s simple in approach but tender and detailed in process, yielding neither to convention nor self-indulgence, which is typically the hardest musical ground to hold. An infinitely fulfilling listen, the record is impossible to let go of long after you’ve walked away from the music, and my winter simply wouldn’t be the same without it.


REVIEWED BY NEIL LEVENS
NEIL’S FAVORITE TRACKS: “No” • “Hatred of Music” • “In The Air”


FREE MP3: “Hatred of Music I” (right-click & save)