Privately issued in 1988 in a batch of 300 and then released on the Table of the Elements label in 1997 before again going out of print, Richard Youngs' debut album Advent has secured a significant underground reputation despite its obscurity. Writer-musician Alan Licht once placed the album on his "minimal top 10" list, and The Wire recently included Advent alongside Can, the Stooges, and Neu! in a celebration of their all-time favorite riffs. Now Youngs' longtime label Jagjaguwar reissues the album, allowing curious newcomers the easiest opportunity yet to finally catch a glimpse of this uncompromising, highly-individualized work.
In his liner notes for this edition, Youngs refers to Advent as "a record by an intense young man," and after a few spins you're unlikely to detect anything that'd persuade you to disagree. Essentially one 41-minute composition divided into three segments, the album's primary distinguishing characteristic is a hypnotic, two-chord piano figure that pulses with limited variation throughout its entirety. This relentless piano phrase is in fact knotted so loosely that to call it a riff almost feels like an overstatement. As the album progresses the piano begins to scarcely resemble a manmade construction at all, seeming instead a simple, erosive fact of the landscape like a constant wind patiently carving an arch into sandstone or the steady drip of cave-water building a stalactite.
Over the course of the album, Youngs proceeds to stage three offensives against this piano's impenetrable bulwarks. On Part I he makes his approach wielding only his plaintive vocals, repeatedly pleading "don't fall apart," in a manner that suggests he's not directly addressing anyone outside his own skull. Though Youngs' vocals have been frequently (and accurately) compared to those of Robert Wyatt, there is also a lonesome quaver in his singing here that recalls Jandek, a resemblance perhaps made more obvious by Youngs' recent and unprecedented live collaboration with the elusive Corwood Industries representative.
After that nagging, imperturbable piano emerges from Part I unscathed, Youngs brings out the heavy artillery on Parts II and III. On II he performs extensive surgery (without an anesthetic) on a diseased oboe or two, conjuring a variety of unearthly noises from every sector of the instrument's established range and beyond. Though abrasive, this caterwauling does open a nice hole in the roof to escape through as the claustrophobic walls of piano continue to press in. And the hinges are torn off completely on the 18-minute Part III when Youngs finally resorts to a full frontal electric guitar assault. Forgoing any actual recognizable notes, his guitar unleashes rapturously anarchic sheets of sound, filling the air with red sparks as he sharpens and bends all his blades in a futile attempt to overtake the unyielding piano. Though its harsh and heady minimalism undoubtedly makes Advent a demanding listen (and a potential room-clearer if played amongst the wrong crowd) it remains the most potently concentrated document of Youngs' peculiar and captivating talents.
