The basement of Stereo is covered in a blanket of darkness.
Dry ice – lots of it – snakes through the rows of assembled bodies; or at least I imagine it does, as I can barely see more than two feet in front of me.
A single orb of light hangs over Tim Hecker’s setup like the luminescent antennae of an anglerfish, constituting the sole light source – aside from that, the abyss beckons.
It’s a very deliberate ambience, the intent of which seems clear: rather than focusing their attentions on the performance or the performer, the crowd are invited to withdraw inside their own heads, deprived of any external stimuli save for the music buffeting through the speakers.
This state of sensory near-deprivation makes the show difficult to review in the traditional sense: I can’t see Hecker at all, nor can I gauge the reactions of my fellow audience members.
Those I can discern are standing or sitting alone with an air of disconnection.
As a fan of Hecker’s records, his music as presented in a live context is more juddering, more physically overpowering than I expected.
It’s closer in spirit to the visceral slabs of sonic concrete doled out by his contemporary, Blanck Mass; or to Mute Records’ Ben Frost, who similarly trades tenderness for heaviness when playing live.
The set is heavy with cuts from new album Love Streams, his first since signing to 4AD, and there are undoubtedly brilliant moments, because the music is brilliant: on ‘Live Leak Instrumental’, chattering snares cut through an ominous synth fog like distant gun fire, caught on some bleak wind blowing through the trenches.
Yet the softer edges of Hecker’s earlier records – the piano samples of Dropped Pianos; the slow-burning overtures of Ravedeath, 1972 – are sorely missed here, drowned out as they are by hyper-compressed, cavity-crushing blocks of noise.
Physically and emotionally isolated from one another, each listener enters into a private séance with Hecker’s music, coming away with their own interpretation; their own accompanying narrative.
In mine, my brain is slowly dying, deprived of oxygen: the pulses of Hecker’s music are the sound of my neurones misfiring one by one, while the orb above his desk is the light at the end of the tunnel I’m rushing towards.
In this sense, it’s a very powerful experience – rarely does sound have such a sublime affect, commanding the ability to plunge people so deeply inside themselves.
But there’s no potential for communality or commonality at a show like this one, and that – to be ‘alone together’ – can be a rather alienating thing.
As a final point, I can’t help but balk at the combination of the short set time (one hour, barely), the lack of a support act, and tickets priced at close to £20.
You could’ve had much the same experience sitting at home with the blinds drawn, listening to Hecker’s new record while letting your dinner burn in the oven.
Words: Graham Neil Gillespie
Photos: Allan Lewis
