|Venue:||Glasgow St Andrews in the Square|
|Writer:||Darkwülf, Rob Wallace|
The vaulted ceiling, commanding pulpit and stained glass windows bring a touch of class to proceedings, but whoever is responsible for the seating arrangements is clearly more attuned to weddings than artistic displays of dronebience. Subtle drone begets resonating bass, synthetic spikes puncturing the air; the mood deepening as light fades and stained glass dulls, the hall in darkness save for a handful of faux candles and a laptop screen.
Tim Hecker's wall of fuck screams from the accurately positioned huge non-euclidean metallic speakers for over an hour, all at four points aiming inwards where all the hipster cunts sit on the rather uncomfortable seats provided. Standing at the back I watch, like a sonically sex-starved perverted riff rapist, waiting for the big event, and it comes.
He begins his set with some unknown tracks (to me), hitting us with some mashed-up sounds that resemble an other-worldly ringtone that fades in and out over his typical daunting synths. 'The Piano Drop' hits us like the waking realisation that you drank 4 bottles of Buckfast and wrote a poem. The familiar, sad, consuming tones drag you in.
Twenty minutes in and something is amiss. I'm just not feeling it. There just doesn’t appear to be anyone enjoying themselves; no appreciative and knowing nods between friends, no De Niro faces during skin-tingling bass throbs, just 200 fashionable people staring at a man updating his status.
Huge waves of throbbing pulses shoot towards us. Ravedeath 1972 is in full effect, hideously gorgeous in its gargled ingenious splendour. I try to not fall over, wanting to just drop in with the music. Looking at the square I see a huge lake of flesh, all the cool kids washing into each other; the whole spectacle seems to carry a level of detachment.
Closing my eyes transports me to Irvine beach on a cold, blustery December day. Gale force winds and crashing waves rendering audible thought impossible; fingers and face numbed by the cold. A solitary tanker eerily resting on the horizon, the cobalt sky mirroring the decaying urban landscape sprawled beyond the dunes.
The power and dexterity of this music simply cannot be faulted; however the atmosphere in this venue saps my motivation and leaves me feeling empty, my needs ultimately unfulfilled.
Posted: Tue 22 May 2012