Why do men dig?
The benign answer is that digging is exercise that gives a sense of purpose. “Hobby tunneling” spells out the reasons people delve. A similar idea applies to caving or spelunking: exploring areas our evolutionary ancestors crawled out of, tracing the past we left behind. Physical yet intellectual. George Mallory once said he climbed a mountain “because it is there.” Is caving, then, the reverse? You spelunk because of what’s not there? But there’s a darker side at play, too: a sort of Freudian death drive. An urge to stare into the abyss. To return, like a dying animal, to a dark, cool place that recalls the womb.
Tim Hecker hasn’t always been a miner. At first, water was his element. He’d once made ambient techno under his Jetone moniker, but as soon as he used his own name, he dove into the sea. His debut Haunt Me, Haunt Me Do It Again, was an arctic, chilling album encased in ice, the perfect soundtrack to The Thing or other polar nightmares. Follow-up Radio Amor stayed in the water but raised the temperature, documenting hallucinatory nights on a fishing vessel in the Atlantic. Finally, after the misty Mirages, Hecker decided he had completed his sublimation trilogy and promptly burrowed deep into the earth.
Harmony in Ultraviolet, released twenty years ago this week, finds Hecker facing the squeeze and embracing powerful, tectonic forces. Contemporary reviews compared it to Brian Eno’s On Land. Both records thrill with more disorienting sounds than their predecessors and freely use nonmusical elements to create texture and unease. Harmony’s “Stags, Aircraft, Kings and Secretaries,” for instance, is cluttered with the sound of knives being sharpened: one slice caught in suspension, then ringing out into a chiming echo and bouncing off endless, tunneling walls. Then brief glimpses of the outside world appear—a door closing, a basketball falling onto the floor, a heartbeat captured on the monitors.
In the musical minutiae, Hecker doesn’t lift the curtain; instead, he strips the stage bare. “Palimpsest (Pt. I)” gouges the most dynamic elements from “Stags, Aircraft, Kings and Secretaries,” thus leaving only a thrumming organ and mist-laden bass—the foreground elements that would usually go unnoticed. In an interview at the time, Hecker consistently used “fog” to describe both his music and headspace. In a cave, fog is an exhalation. The wet, mouth-like opening breathing, but deeper and slower than any living being. If you’ve ever been caving, you’ll know that even the most beautiful portions of the underground hold an inherent eeriness. Grand stalactites, pools of mineral-rich water, utterly alien cave salamanders—they’re all gorgeous, but also feel somehow wrong. Harmony’s truly wondrous moments are like seeing a strange albino creature; sightless, translucent. Pretty but so from another world that they look like anti-matter to our surface life.
This is unpleasant, unnerving music, but especially when it’s beautiful. In quiet terror, Hecker created the sludgy buzz of “Harmony in Blue (Pt.2),” which sounds like a man-sized mosquito, its buzzing tuned down multiple octaves. Worse yet is the thumping, indefinable thing beneath that humming. It sounds like, by turns: doors closing, waves rocking against a ship, an engorged heartbeat. “Harmony in Blue (Pt. 3)” is like the save room in a Resident Evil game, a brief respite with globular, calming synths barely keeping the hounds at bay. “Whitecaps of Noise” implies water, but the short, icy stabs of sound suggest jutting rocks and snowcapped peaks.
“Chimeras” rests on a chopped and screwed “Moonlight Sonata”-Esque piano loop that hovers menacingly, gossamer webs of guitar coating the song while conjuring up images of Greek monsters and labyrinths. With their eerie, meditative synths, twins “Rainbow Blood” and “Blood Rainbow” evoke the partially apocryphal Rainbow Valley, a stretch of Mount Everest littered with the dead in their colorful climbing gear, bodies and colors preserved eternally in the cold. Fittingly, the two songs bleed into each other: “Blood Rainbow” closes out the album and loops right back into the sister song that opens it.
Hecker, always uncomfortable with genre tags, rejected “ambient” outright, saying his influences rested with his wishes to “travel with an indie rock band, or do some dance composition, or work with some black metal outfit.” All three appear in Harmony, but black metal is a particularly important touchstone. Where Bathory or Darkthrone created walls of sound through overwhelming their cheap recording equipment, Hecker found the same all-consuming noise through hi-fidelity work.
When Harmony came out, Hecker said his music education came from “my sheet music was the guitar tabs in recreating Whitesnake and Van Halen guitar solos, that was my form of classical music.” One of his first releases under his own name was My Love is Rotten to the Core, based on sickly, processed samples from Van Halen’s “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love.” It was proto-vaporwave focused on the sheer power of the guitar. Most other eighties kids trying to learn “Hot For Teacher” were enthralled with Eddie’s technical mastery and speed. Hecker focused on the unrelenting noise.
“Dungioneering” closes with a slab of guitar that rises above all other sounds, while the crackling power of “Spring Heeled Jack Flies Tonight” and the pandemonium of “Radio Spiricom” harken back to My Love is Rotten to the Core’s madness. In comparison to other ambient guitarists, Hecker seemed relatively uninterested in the instrument beyond how he could torture it. Pan American, Loren Connors—they still viewed a guitar as, well, a guitar. Hecker futzed with the amps, using his background in electroacoustic experiments to fuck with the instrument’s body. He wanted to weaponize it.
Techno’s influence is more subtle. Compare Hecker to ambient contemporaries, and the obvious difference is rhythm. The year after Harmony, another stunning ambient composition would make its mark: Stars of the Lid’s classically minded, beautiful And Their Refinement of the Decline. Compared to that legato, languid work, most of Hecker’s albums can be tracked to a grid, which gives his songs a mechanical momentum. Completing a sort of spiritual trilogy, Hecker acolyte and eventual peer The Haxan Cloak made his own version of Harmony or On Land with the hadal Excavation. Both Hecker and The Haxan Cloak, coming from the world of ambient and dub techno, know the importance of the beat.
Hecker also found incredible tricks in the subwoofer. Throughout Harmony, he subtly shifts the bass pulses from long drones to chopped-up eighth notes, as if oscillating between long breaths and hyperventilation. His restraint with unfathomable bass lets portions of Harmony become utterly chilling. Just when you think you’ve hit the bottom, another layer beckons below—and the most worrying, beguiling moments are when the abyss suddenly comes into focus. The raucous “Spring Heeled Jack Flies Tonight” closes by jarringly ripping out the chaotic white noise that blanketed the song, leaving a brief drone of keyboards and a benthic bass. The sheer sonic psychosis distracts, like a horror movie letting its monster slink into the frame unnoticed.
Hecker found inspiration in paintings for his smudged, hazy work. The album’s title is a homage to Matisse’s painting The Dessert: Harmony in Red (The Red Room), which overwhelms with vibrant color. German painter Gerhard Richter’s 18 October 1977 series was an influence: grainy, grey portraits of Cold War Europe and leftist militants who had allegedly committed suicide in jail but were believed to have been murdered. It’s similar to the album’s cover art, which depicts the Monument to Fallen Partisans, an anti-fascist tableau in Italy. Both works are memorials that have been filtered through years, decay, and ambivalence. The monument becomes impersonal in time.
Hecker plays on those themes through tarnished motifs. The samples in “Chimeras” and “Dungeonieering” both have bits of detritus on them, the pop of scratched vinyl, digital stretch marks coming in and out of earshot. Both “Palimpsest”s use recontextualization of previously buried sounds to produce dread, while “Spring Heeled Jack” and “Radio Spiricom” are conjoined, with the latter crafting an even more unhinged version of the wall of noise chaos introduced earlier and closing in a similar fashion, stripping away the noise to leave a deep, unrelenting sense of melancholy and loss through the drone.
Hecker already had a feverish cult following thanks to Radio Amor‘s peerless excellence. But Harmony in Ultraviolet catapulted him into a sort of mythic status within glitch and ambient fandoms. Harmony is one of his best works and, therefore, one of the best albums in ambient music history. But it’s not his magnum opus. That honor goes to either Radio Amor or his imperial run from 2011 to 2013, with Ravedeath 1972, the Dropped Pianos EP, and Virgins. Harmony signaled the end of his first era, focused on digital manipulation. Hecker would later turn to more analog instruments and higher-fidelity experiments. Still, Harmony enraptures like little else in the genre.
In Ted Chiang’s brilliant novella Tower of Babylon, men build a monument that pierces the sky, going beyond the firmament and into what they believe is Heaven. The main character, Hillalum, breaks through the clouds, through stone and water, only to find himself back on earth, right where civilization started building. The climb became a loop. God made the world an ouroboros. When Mallory expanded on the urge to climb Everest, a quest that would eventually kill him, he said it’s “a part, I suppose, of man’s desire to conquer the universe.” Hillalum and Hecker found submission instead. Harmony in Ultraviolet begins as a descent and becomes an ascent.
Nathan Stevens is a musician, archivist, and podcaster whose work has appeared in Spectrum Culture, Stereogum, and Popmatters. He currently runs the music interview website Woodhouse.