12 Songs, 52 Minutes

EDITORS’ NOTES

Tim Hecker albums have always sounded like an eternal struggle between darkness and light, with glimpses of terror and tranquility lurking around the edges of every ambient loop. And while they’re all worth a late-night listen, Ravedeath, 1972 is one of his most cohesive artistic statements yet; 12 songs that bleed into one another beautifully. So beautifully, in fact, that they could have been combined into a single track without anyone noticing. Since they aren’t, it’s best to let the entire thing fill your room like the live recording that led to its creation. (Most of the record was captured in one day at an Icelandic church with Hecker’s close friend, fellow sound sculptor Ben Frost.) To listen is to let the light creep in through the bandages, and feel cleansed as the very last note flickers and dies like a rain-doused bonfire. Heavy stuff indeed.

EDITORS’ NOTES

Tim Hecker albums have always sounded like an eternal struggle between darkness and light, with glimpses of terror and tranquility lurking around the edges of every ambient loop. And while they’re all worth a late-night listen, Ravedeath, 1972 is one of his most cohesive artistic statements yet; 12 songs that bleed into one another beautifully. So beautifully, in fact, that they could have been combined into a single track without anyone noticing. Since they aren’t, it’s best to let the entire thing fill your room like the live recording that led to its creation. (Most of the record was captured in one day at an Icelandic church with Hecker’s close friend, fellow sound sculptor Ben Frost.) To listen is to let the light creep in through the bandages, and feel cleansed as the very last note flickers and dies like a rain-doused bonfire. Heavy stuff indeed.

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