Alessandro Cortini is best known as a member of Nine Inch Nails, and as I discreetly listened in on conversations before the concert, it was clear that several people had shown up because of the connection to the famous band and its noisy, confrontational music – music that is worlds apart from the feather-light ambient universe that characterises most of Cortini’s solo work.

At ALICE, however, we were presented with a very different side of Cortini: Cortini the film composer. The artist was positioned far out at the edge of the stage, where he could tinker with his synthesizers in peace without stealing attention from the film projected onto the back wall of the stage. Contrasting, tactile images slowly sliding into and out of one another. Abstract, amorphous shapes that at times resembled misty memories from the real world: raindrops on a car window, a city seen from above, stars in the night sky; tar, metal shavings, crushed crystal.

Cortini reminded me of a kind of electronic John Williams, enveloping the images in an unusually grand, almost symphonic universe that elevated the black-and-white light forms into hieroglyphs of infinite wisdom. The atmosphere was so sacral and gripping that, with closed eyes, one could easily forget that Cortini was not singing Michelangelo’s paintings from behind the organ in the Sistine Chapel, but instead setting analogue synth tones to what looked like an image of a granite block. Some of the Nine Inch Nails fans, I could hear, were slightly confused by the emotionally charged, almost romantic aesthetic, but I myself truly admired Cortini for his uncompromising maximalism. There was no affected distance or feigned coolness – only pure, unadulterated musical beauty.

One of the most mysterious – and at times boundary-pushing – interviews ever captured on tape is Meatball Fulton’s 1967 interview with Pink Floyd’s Syd Barrett. Filled with broken sentences, incongruous word combinations, questions and answers that seem to bear no relation to one another, and pauses that feel endless, the interview pushes the limits of what can meaningfully be called communication at all. »Your impression of me… which you must have… would you care to tell me? And be like absolutely honest… Do you have one?« the interviewer asks at one point. »In words?« Barrett replies.

In Words is also the title of multidisciplinary artist Alexander Tillegreen’s debut album, whose closing composition samples a full seven minutes of the interview. It is not difficult to understand what Tillegreen hears in this peculiar exchange. For someone who, in his artistic explorations of psychoacoustics and phantom words, has consistently probed sound’s possibilities and limitations as a carrier of meaning, the interview must appear as a rather sensational example of the illusory nature of language.

None of this would, of course, be of any interest if the music were not as strong as it is: richly atmospheric, detailed, texturally varied, emotionally potent, and filled with pleasing, warm synth tones that recall 1970s German Kosmische Musik. The fact that a large part of the compositions originate in earlier installation works often leaves me with the strange feeling that there is a dimension or context I do not fully grasp – which, of course, is entirely in keeping with Tillegreen’s spirit.