As Montreal-based noise artist Tim Hecker could attest to, developing an entirely unique musical sound can turn out to be a double edged sword. Throughout his ten year career, Hecker has been content to refine his distinctive soundworld rather than explore any wildly new musical territory. Whilst his refusal to stray too far from his comfort zone has given him the opportunity to perfect his art - resulting in the landmark album ‘Harmony In Ultraviolet’ - Hecker’s general lack of musical progression between releases has attracted some criticism, most recently for 2009’s ‘An Imaginary Country’.
‘Ravedeath, 1972’ certainly doesn’t represent any sort of sonic revolution for Tim Hecker. As the opening wash of grainy, textured noise melts away to reveal the pulsing organ chords below, ‘Ravedeath, 1972’ is immediately recognisable as the work of Tim Hecker. This record is far from an uninspired, by-the-numbers outing, however. Where Hecker has taken a precise, almost scientific, approach to his previous works, ‘Ravedeath, 1972’ introduces the spontaneity of live music into the equation.
Recorded on a church organ in Reykjavik, Hecker’s improvisations have since been subjected to heavy post-production. Often distorted to the edge of recognition or buried beneath apocalyptic electric guitar drones, the use of organ throughout the record provides a thematic continuity without ever grabbing too much of the spotlight. Hecker’s remarkably restrained approach to the instrument makes the fleeting moments when it is allowed to emerge unadulterated all the more spellbinding; this provides much needed emotional contact amidst the otherwise harsh soundscapes.
These brief moments of respite come to act as signposts throughout the record, the relatively warm sounds of the organ guiding the listener through the record’s tempestuous moods. In less skilled hands, the dichotomy Hecker has introduced here could easily have come across as emotionally divisive, tugging at the heartstrings in all the right places, but nowhere on ‘Ravedeath, 1972’ does Hecker take this easy route. The distant piano in closer In The Air III, hints at (but never quite attains) a serenity that Hecker seems to have been yearning for throughout. Underpinned by murmuring, low end synths and guitar feedback, In The Air III fails to provide any sort of closure, with Hecker opting instead for a feeling of detachment and alienation as the final notes of the album fade to nothing.
That is, perhaps, the only fitting end for this record. A beautiful collision of order and chaos, ‘Ravedeath, 1972’ is an album of uncertainty, and to have neatly closed off this work with anything more explicit than In The Air III would have completely undermined the preceding music. It is extremely rare to find a record so emotionally complex within the clinical, rather restrictive bounds of ambient music. When faced with a record of this quality, the rest is just noise.