Review:

on 2011-06-30 RutherfordMarsh Said:

It is commonly said that Tim Hecker is not for everyone. I had a professor once who used to say that if you don't like Shakespeare it's your fault- while I won't take it that far in the case of a relatively unknown Canadian ambient composer, Tim Hecker's work is universal. There's nothing on any of his albums to alienate a single ear, it's simply a matter of how willing you are to let go of conventional song structure and, more importantly, how patient you are. I admit that the experience of a Hecker album is not always appropriate and perhaps not what many people enjoy about music. That being said, all of the melancholy, otherwordly splendor of his previous work (most especially Radio Amor and Harmony in Ultraviolet) come to a breathtaking point on his most recent release, Ravedeath, 1972. In fact, this album is so solid that I believe it is the only Hecker piece one truly needs to hear.

The tracks fit together as an emotional narrative, making this a record that is best enjoyed in a single sitting. Unlike much ambient music (including Hecker's earlier work), this really does not operate well as background music- it's too visceral, too obtrusive and too . . . well, sad. A good pair of headphones or aggressive soundsytem is highly recommended. The album opens with a screeching conflict between organic and artificial sound, which, over the course of the "In the Fog" suite, establishes itself as the central theme of the record. "No Drums" is perhaps the easiest listen here- a distant lamenting synth repeats a funereal riff over and over behind various subtle clicks and hums, eventually being drowned out by the wailing two-part "Hatred of Music." The second half of the album is a little less dramatic, but remains just as arresting, closing with a three-part suite called "In the Air" that finaly manages to reconcile the violence of the conflicting sounds heard earlier.

Much like Radiohead's Kid A, it's difficult to say exactly where the sadness on the album comes from. It is absurd to suggest that it is inhuman, yet the massive, pulsing melancholy is too odd to be entirely relatable. To me, it feels like automated loss- bringing to mind an android alone in an empty field late at night. Sadness ringing from a place that can't be sad- believe it or not, it gives me sympathy for my computer. This is an album meant to be heard in a state of lone contemplation, and it is undoubtedly a very large commitment. And so, indeed it is true that Ravedeath, 1972 is not for everyone, but for me it has been the most rewarding listen of the year so far.
Rating: 9/10