Tim Hecker is the closest thing to a super star that experimental music has. It's a toss-up between Fennesz and Hecker as to who is the more well-known, and who gets more acclaim from general indie rock sites like Pitchfork and Stereogum. The point is that beyond the genre's dedicated fans not a lot of experimental artists get to the level of recognition that Tim Hecker has reached. After a trio of lesser known, but well received, albums, Hecker produced 2006's breakthrough "Harmony in Ultraviolet." That album's dark epic beauty introduced him to a whole new audience outside of the readers of Wire and Brainwashed. His follow-up, the less dramatic but equally epic, "An Imaginary Country" solidified Hecker as one of the genre's greats. As a result, the build up to "Ravedeath, 1972" has been one marked by great anticipation with early murmurs declaring it Hecker's best yet. The album was inspired by what Hecker sees as the death of music. After viewing images of pirated cds being bulldozed in Eastern Europe, Hecker apparently became interested in what he perceives as both the hatred of music (as illustrated in the album's cover which features a piano being thrown off of a rooftop) and the disposability of music in the digital age. How this intent translates to the music on "Ravedeath" is open to interpretation, but what immediately struck me on the first few listens is that this album is considerably less dynamic than either "Harmony in Ultraviolet" or "An Imaginary Country." It almost sounds static by comparison. At the same time, there is a general sense of decay that runs throughout the record. It calls to mind William Basinski's epic "The Disintegration Loops," which was itself the product of magnetic tapes that had physically deteriorated.
Musically the album is a mixture of organic and electronic instrumentation. The basis for the pieces originated from a live improvisation session Hecker performed on a pipe organ in a church Reykjavik, Iceland, as well as piano work provided by fellow traveller Ben Frost. Hecker then, of course, processed and manipulated the performances to create the dense sonic fog that he is so well known for. On occasion, though, passages of unadulterated organ can be heard throughout the album, as well as piano. That back and forth between the organic and the manipulated makes for the record's strongest dynamic.
The album begins with "The Piano Drop," a dense oscillating number that sets the stage for what is to come. There are minor synth washes underneath a pulsating ascending and descending electronic motif, and eventually the track fades into the fog from which it came. The piece would make an ideal soundtrack to a sepia-toned film played on a glitchy projector. The next passage is "In The Fog," one of the album's many internal movements. Broken into three pieces "Fog" emerges out of a discordant mixture of descending piano passages and submerged, but subtly lacerating, electronics. Eventually the piano and electronic chaos subsides leaving a naked pipe organ in their wake. Hecker's playing here brings to mind Philip Glass' haunting organ work on "Koyaanisqatsi," invoking the same ominous sense of doom and decay through dark minimalist repetition. The piece eventually cascades as harsher distorted effects wash over the organ before descending into subtle tones over a grinding, but buried, drone.
Hecker strips down his approach considerably on "No Drums," creating a quite and meditative ambient number that calls to mind the more beautiful and transcendental passages of Apex Twin's "Selected Ambient Works." "Hatred of Music" finds Hecker constructing cathedrals of sound once again, this time tapping into the kind of meditative but dark noisy abyss mastered by Popal Vuh. It's another massive piece of music that pits the organ against soaring orchestrated effects as well as what sounds like gnarled distorted guitars that wouldn't be out of place on a Sunn 0))) recording.
The record's latter half is more subdued and almost indiscernible barring a focused listen. If there is one criticism I have of the album it is that at times like these it may be too indistinct, too subtle for it's own good. Yet a close listen reveals sonic violence below the surface of these pieces, which are admittedly Hecker's most restrained works to date. "In The Air" is forgettable as background music, but given full attention the piece is just as dense and harrowing as anything Hecker has done before. In the end though, I can't help but wish for the massive arch and climax that characterized "Harmony in Ultraviolet," and to a lesser degree "An Imaginary Country." At the same time, had Hecker done that he would have basically be recycling the same record that he has been making for the past few years. By sticking to his own unique vision and dodging expectations he has created something more refined, and more challenging, on "Ravedeath, 1972." In the end, whatever points Hecker loses for lack of dynamism this time around, he gains them back for pushing his music into new territory. For an album built on the premise of the death of music, Hecker's creativity sounds very much alive and well.
"The Piano Drop"
"In The Fog I-III"
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