A heat haze was hanging over London, far removed from the drizzly murk of last Friday. People were sunbathing on the exposed low tide shore down below the South Bank Centre (you aren’t on the Riviera! That is the Thames, for heaven’s sake! Look at those things floating by in the river – they are…they are…actually I have no idea what they are, but they may be radioactive so I’d be careful if I were you). And here I was about to lock myself up in a dark room for three hours for the first of two Touch special events taking place in the space of a month, this time featuring the substantial combined talents of Fennesz, Rosy Parlane and CM Von Hausswolff. As you can imagine, I was quite happy with my lot.

Last time I saw CM Von Hausswolff, he played a beguiling set of overlapping sine waves to a transfixed crowd in a pub in Balham. To reach such sonic nirvana tonight we had to first endure ten minutes of floor-shaking, roof-rattling noise; sound as exhilarating physical experience. We were deposited suddenly on the shore, and then those crystalline waves began to wash over us, crossing each other to create surprising and much gentler physical experiences – depending on how you turned your head, you heard different combinations of frequencies (one guy a couple of rows in front of me whipped out his iPhone to use an oscilloscope app at this point). Then the rumbling began anew: huge, latecomer-repelling blocks of noise which mingled with the pure tones to vibrate the seats ticklishly (the same chap pulled out a decibel counter now). The sound in the hall was rendered perfectly, amongst the best I’ve heard; a quick glance to my right revealed that Jon Wozencroft from Touch was sitting at the mixing desk.

Wozencroft’s photography is one of the key elements of Touch’s identity, and so it was fitting that Rosy Parlane took to the stage in front of a backdrop of the image used for his new download+A3 print release (may need a snappier name, this new format…mpA3? A(mp)3?) – green leaves dripping down into a shimmering pool of water. It looks somehow Amazonian – which is surely an invitation for someone tell me it was taken in Croydon or some such – and this probably influenced my interpretation of the music. Parlane’s set grew in stature as it progressed. He constructed a scene full of reptilian hiss and insectoid chirp, which suddenly dropped out to leave a lush organ phrase ringing out through the canopy. Gradually the tendrils of organic drone grew back over the music, burying it amongst undergrowth, with only the merest fragments of melody seeing daylight. It sounded like a Philip Jeck piece by the end, with huge white crackle enveloping the merest hints of song.

So which Fennesz would turn up tonight? The uncompromisingly abrasive one who played ATP in December? Or the more melodic one I saw a few years back? The answer was, almost inevitably, neither. He is the most restless of artists, one who will never – it seems to me – deliver anything like the same set twice. The first half was taken up with what initially seemed to be a comparatively composed new piece. It began fairly diffidently, with him fussing with some buzzy live guitar – an instrument he played relatively little of tonight – while the screen behind showed the view from a car driving through deserted and rain-battered roads at night. (I must confess to spending too much of this performance trying to establish exactly where the car was, which was entirely nugatory as at the end the car stopped right outside the Ansty Cross inn. A272, there you are). Glitchy rhythms seemed to coincide with the pounding of the windscreen wipers, at which point I began to realise that he was actually reacting to some extent to the visuals, which explained the need for a second monitor in front of him. Into this mix he poured some clipped fragments of strings, which eventually swelled into something orchestral, and quite beautiful. Where were the lashings of feedback and growling granulated guitar I had been expecting? Ah, here they were, finally arriving to devour all that had gone before with a malevolent grin.

More symbolic watery imagery followed; light dappling on a pool, with the surface stillness belying an intricate rippling complexity. A quiet breeze kissed the inside of the Hall’s huge tank, before Fennesz opened all the taps with a jarring metallic screech. Amongst this roaring rush of liquid could be heard hints of themes familiar (did I hear “The Point Of It All” from Venice in there? That ghostly tune has been following me around ever since) and unfamiliar, climaxing with an epic and emotional organ melody set deep amongst white squall. This was a rich end to a typically ambitious set; I felt thoroughly sated.

The fifteen minute trio set after this was an abstract little pudding I didn’t remember ordering, although it did look rather tasty on the plate when it arrived. Parlane kicked things off with some big drones, with the other two chipping in with whistles and crackles. Someone, and I bet it was the mischievous Hausswolff, added something which sounded like they were drilling into concrete with a very fine bit. This reverberation was built upon by the others, until it finally felt like we were being transported in a huge, juddering helicopter. At various points during the evening’s immense sounds, I’m sure we had all felt like we had been transported somewhere, Amazonian, Croydonian or otherwise.

The next Touch event is at the Roundhouse on May 16th, featuring Philip Jeck, Gavin Bryars, Biosphere, BJ Nilsen and Hildur Gudnadottir. But you know this, I’m sure. I’ll see you there.