Live Review: Tim Hecker & Pole

A remarkable crowd has turned up to see Tim Hecker and Pole tonight. The excitement is tangible, and it's heartening to see the recognition and respect Brisbane has for these artists, both masters of their forms. Indeed it's initially uncertain whether everyone will be able to fit into the performance space, but with some tight squeezing, in the end it's possible.

Hecker begins the night, and it seems that his set will be dominated by the recordings that led to Ravedeath, 1972 and Dropped Pianos, rather than his recent collaboration with Daniel Lopatin. Swirling static rolls from side to side as clanging organ and piano key strikes loop and build, teetering on the edge of discordance. Bass slowly rumbles out in waves, becoming gradually dominant over the higher treble keys. There's a surprising sense of song, of individual moments, rather then a continuous evolving form, which sees Hecker exploring a wider collection of ideas than would perhaps have been available in a single piece.

If music can be said to be elemental, then this is the collision and slow destruction of those elements: sheets of ice crashing into seas after decades of slow warming; giant cliffs worn away by ever present tides. Static sprays like a smoke machine, filling the air in bursts. Hammered keys overlap, break, lose meaning; shift from notes to rhythm to abstracted form. A building breaks under the weight of its own edifice. Crackling static hums over gradually decaying bass and, with eyes closed, the room drops away. The too tight crowd vanishes, replaced by a gentle blackness, leaving the listener bobbing in water, buoyed by sound. And when the music fades to silence, it's replaced with rapturous applause.

Pole starts with scattered clicks bouncing between the speakers and the occasional pulse of beat coming forcefully from both. Bird squawks are added, initially so oddly out of place that it seems like a phone is going off. Rolling dub bass and the scattershot clicks are head-noddingly pleasant and as the other aspects of the sound – beats and stabs of noise like a guitar under pressure – rise up to challenge and at times overwhelm the bass, the music becomes full enough to warrant attention, no longer just casual background noise. When the bass drops out, it's like the lifting of a familiar physical weight: pleasant, but leaves you aching for its return.

At its best, the music feels alive, the beat contorting sinuously between the speakers, soaked in disquieting distortion. Too often though, it merely exists: a slow pulse, too busy to be meditative and too repetitious to fully engage with. By itself it's fine, but it seems a little incomplete after the primordial Hecker.