Tim Hecker @ Camp and Furnace, Liverpool, 19 November

So when exactly did ‘ambient’ become conflated with ‘chillout’? Funny how such lazy approximation can be such a waste of effort: on this near-pitch black stage, devoid of spotlight, Tim Hecker is the living, breathing antithesis of the latter term. Those adjectives aren’t used lightly, incidentally – Montreal’s very own techno wunderkind creates music that belies its electronic origins.

Compositional movements like In the Fog feel thoroughly organic; it rises and swells like lungs pumping thick, toxic air, before expunging clouds of simple chemical waste into increasingly noxious atmospheres. Boards of Canada were often tagged with words like ‘bucolic’ thanks to the pastoral qualities of their breakbeat-infused serenity, but they never felt as tragically, humblingly human as this.

Latest opus Virgins – the chief basis for tonight’s set – perfectly demonstrates Hecker’s textured genius: soft bleeps jar against silence like radio static, while organ swells and bass tones ebb and flow violently like turbulent waves in slow motion. Melody is background here – crescendos colour the sound above all else, with ears constantly widened and tightened by the unrelenting tonal wash. It’s beautiful, yet somehow tinged with sadness and menace.

This isn’t music for relaxation. It’s barely music for enjoyment. Instead, in near-total darkness, dimmed only by the pale, soft glow of barlight and electronic dials, we stand facing a man we can barely see, playing songs we can barely hear amid the roar of tones; of sound; of noise. Some might compare that awed, blind reverence to religion. We’ll settle for plain ol’ fascinated wonder.