Jacques Demierre's "The Hills Shout" is a singular, sprawling sonic tapestry, a 40-minute solo piano performance that ambitiously attempts to capture the fleeting essence of a live concert experience. Touted as a "live memory of a past concert", this album is less a straightforward recital and a more postmodern exploration of sound, memory, and the artist's internal landscape.

Named after a handwritten poem by Robert Lax (1980), the album kicks off with an intriguing soundscape, where the piano is manipulated to resemble a metallic harp. This is Demierre at his finest — eschewing conventional techniques to create something that is both familiar and disconcertingly new. The first seven minutes alone are a tour de force of musical shape-shifting: from the gentle serenity reminiscent of Erik Satie to a frenetic burst that could be mistaken for a drum solo, and then plunging back into the innards of the piano for some prepared piano wizardry. It's an audacious start that sets the tone for the rest of this mercurial journey.

Demierre’s ability to morph his instrument into a multitude of personas is nothing short of remarkable. The entire piece is constructed like an abstract, cubist painting, each section a distinct “brick” that contributes to the overall structure. One moment you’re enveloped in a soft, velvety atmosphere, the next you're navigating a harsh, icy soundscape. It's as if Demierre is building a wall where each brick is a different material — feathers, ice, origami, you name it. This metaphorical wall not only stands, but fascinates with its diversity and complexity.

Labeling Demierre’s approach as merely "extended technique" feels inadequate, almost reductive. His command over the piano extends beyond the mechanical and enters the realm of pure artistry. There’s a precision to his explosive outbursts and a delicate subtlety to his quieter passages that can only come from a deep, almost symbiotic relationship with his instrument. His piano isn't just played; it's conversed with, interrogated, and ultimately, transformed.

The production quality of "The Hills Shout" deserves a mention as well. Recorded live in January 2020 and meticulously edited during the pandemic lockdown, the sound is both raw and polished, retaining the immediacy of a live performance while benefiting from thoughtful post-production tweaks. The result is a sound that is intimate yet expansive, capturing the nuance of every keystroke and the resonance of the performance space.

Comparisons to other avant-garde pianists are inevitable. There's a touch of John Cage’s experimental ethos, the lyrical introspection of Morton Feldman, and the boundary-pushing audacity of Cecil Taylor. But comparisons could let readers think Demierre forged something only for uppity haints. It's actually not just an academic exercise in pushing the limits of the piano; it's a deeply personal, almost autobiographical statement rendered in sound.

It's true that "The Hills Shout" isn’t for everyone, considering that its abstract nature and lack of traditional melodic or rhythmic anchors might frustrate listeners looking for something more conventional. But for those willing to embrace its challenges, the album offers a rewarding, thought-provoking and other than inaccessible experience. It’s a piece that demands active listening, engagement, and perhaps a bit of patience. Whether you find it maddening or mesmerizing, one thing is certain: you won’t forget it.