Melodies play second fiddle to texture and instruments are used expertly well. A solemnity ensues from the pipe organ on the rhythm-less opener 'The Piano Drop', and 'Analog Paralysis, 1978' amplifies the album's feeling of location. As sounds bounce off walls and the sonic image glitches, Hecker's work sounds decidedly progressive, especially when compared to his earlier work. That's the only real difference between his past albums and this though, because Hecker's changes from record to record are very subtle. That being said, every release from him has been of a standard head and shoulders above many modern post-rockers, and this album is no different. One of the qualms I had upon first listen however, was the length of some of the songs. I think the two tracks mentioned above could have been extended a little, to expand on that vast feeling of being forgotten, but the three epics here definitely make up for that. 'In The Fog' and 'In The Air' both have three acts, if you will, with 'Hatred Of Music' split into two sections.
Overall then, this is a sonic path you can't stray from. There is nothing backwards, but there is nothing forwards either. Yet a surreal inkling of hope powers your tired legs to move and your broken heart to beat. This record is a thing of unimaginable beauty. It is the end of everything, but an end that reveals more than you can every hope to learn. An epiphany through sound as you wander. Like Noah astride the flood, the world is cleansed and you're chosen to witness it's dying breath. Your entire being is heightened through 'Ravedeath, 1972', which should be reason enough for you to lend it your attention. Like 'F♯ A♯ ∞', this is an epitaph of how sound can evoke the deepest emotion.
'The Piano Drop'