I’d been having some very mixed feelings about coming to this show, mainly because I knew that on the other side of London Tim Hecker was playing in the ICA.  I already had these tickets when that was announced, and while I could have just ditched them and headed to the West End, I decided to have a little faith in my initial instinct to buy these.  I do find a lot to like in the records of Grouper, and Upset the Rhythm had done a pretty bang-up job in assembling an interesting-sounding line up for the event.  And it was in a gallery, just down the road from Brick Lane, so I could at least amuse myself with curry and art, couldn’t I?

The night didn’t get off to a good start, with Pausal clearly over-running their scheduled starting time, frantically trying to set up projectors and screens and dozens of guitar pedals.  It was worth the wait though.  They produced a lush drone with guitar, electronics and violin, leading them very much into Stars Of The Lid territory.  The images were diffuse, unsettling, dreamlike; the overall effect was like stepping into a Boards Of Canada record cover. 

I couldn’t really fault Gareth Hardwick’s efforts on slide guitar, other than to say that perhaps it was a bit similar to what we had just heard.  In fact, his ambient, droning, reverb sent me into a blissful reverie, bobbing me off to a short sweet cross-legged-on-the-floor sleep, dreaming of being at sea, before a more granulated finish roused me. Angry Ape tells me that he has a split release with Machinefabriek coming out.  That will be well worth investigating.

There was a bit of a buzz in the room when ex-Lungfish Daniel Higgs started to set up, perhaps because it looked a bit like a tramp had wandered in off the street to nick the equipment.  He played a filthy banjo in the filthiest of fashions, very modal and Indian-sounding, accompanied by Chaira Giovando on violin.  Higgs is possessed of one of those voices that sound like he is channelling the ageless soul of the very Earth; when he tells you you are “living in the kingdom of death”, you imagine that Death himself could be in the corner, propped up against the bar, tapping a bony foot.  His incendiary set was cut short when the lights suddenly turned themselves on, causing him to lose the thread of one of his exploratory ragas. 

A tough act for Liz Harris to follow, then.  Ensconcing herself amongst a battery of pedals and old Sony Walkmen, she began to play.  Her voice was a beautiful, wordless instrument, floating atop the layers of (surprisingly reverb-free) guitar and taped wind and waves below.  If anything, it was all a little too clear, more like the sound on her Wide album that the mulchier soundscapes of Way Their Crept and Cover The Windows And The Walls.  She seemed unable even to distort the linear nature of time; all too soon midnight approached, and amidst some confusion, she unplugged and began to dismantle her equipment.

Go on, put me out of my misery: was anyone at the ICA? How was it?

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