Philip Jeck - rpm

A Closer Listen

rpm is a long, slow, generous farewell to a beloved composer from the label and artists who loved him.  We thought last year’s Oxmardyke might be Philip Jeck‘s coda, as many of the recordings were made at his bedside; as such, rpm arrives as a gift.  The double album includes compositions and collaborations by Jeck and friends: sketches fleshed out, ideas realized, hidden tracks released, and pure tributes.  In the same way that Vinyl Requiem “was never a final statement but a testament to the work to come,” neither is rpm a final statement, but evidence of an enduring legacy.

Even without the knowledge of Jeck’s passing, the music would sound elegiac.  The artist’s work with turntables – the slowing down, the vinyl crackle, the flutter and pop – speak simultaneously of demise and continuance.  The record ends, but through its grooves, the composer lives on.

The set’s drones and haunting violins add to the feeling of a farewell.  Fennesz’ opening “Dancer” begins darkly before climbing its way to the light, sparkling all the way.  Gavin Bryars, whose own work delves deeply into loss, collaborates on three pieces, allowing vocal samples to bubble to the surface of loop-filled seas.  “When you’re ready you can let go; it’s all right,” whispers the narrator of “4 Piste” over cello and muted percussion, a slightly chilling encouragement.  But then the main loop takes over: “Embrace every minute of life while we have it.”

Chris Watson, of the aforementioned Oxmardyke, makes a heartfelt contribution with “Saltmarine Station,” graced with field recordings of gulls and seas.  Jeck had already begun work on a project with Claire Singer, whose two sketches for organ are included here, a hint of what might have been, taking on new meaning, now implying the comfort of churches and glimpses of the great beyond.  A church bell tolls insistently in Cris Cheek’s “Clocking Off,” cementing the association. The clearest mourning is expressed by David Sylvian & Hildur Guðnadóttir in “I Measure Every Grief I Meet,” a devastating piece that incorporates Emily Dickinson’s poem of the same title.

One of the most heartrending facets of the release is that “Pilots,” in which Jeck incorporates recordings of pilot whales sent by Jana Winderen, was completed in March of 2022.  Philip Jeck passed away on March 25 of that year.  One can imagine the composer lying in bed, buoyed by the sounds so ancient and wondrous and everlasting, the deep mystery conveyed by the giant ocean creatures, whose indecipherable stories and songs seem to bear such deep emotional weight.

Jeck’s own works close the first and second hours.  “Mono” is a distillation of the composer’s expertise, rife with samples subtle and divine.  While listening, one feels an intense feeling of gratitude for the composer’s courage in carving his own path, one that many would eventually emulate.  A 40-year career crossed all manner of productions, from the “180 record players, nine slide projectors and two 16mm movie projectors” of Vinyl Requiem to numerous scores for ballet, opera and theatre.  As “Makeshift,” recorded live by the Liverpool Improvisation Orchestra, ends the album, the strains of “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep” complete the bridge from earth to heaven. The connotation is clear: rpm is more than a collection, more than a tribute, but a loving eulogy. The needle has reached the end of the vinyl, but the pops and crackle still remain.