How NOT to write about music – 181. Swans

Swans played in Kemptown, St. George’s Church.

The above isn’t a photograph of them, or even a mediated representation of a photograph of them. I find it near impossible to type while Swans are playing through my speakers. Swans are playing through my speakers. The last time I saw Michael Gira’s band play, it was more akin to Live Skull. It was 1987, or thereabouts and as I attempted to walk in the door of Fulham Greyhound. I found myself near physically buffeted straight out the door of the Fulham Greyhound, such was the volume. Back then, I always went down the front of stage. That night, I cowered at the back, far away from the speakers as possible. (Or maybe I watched it from outside, through thickened walls?) Back then, I never wore earplugs. Tonight, I wear earplugs and the very floorboards tremble and air particles shake.

Gira rises from his seat occasionally like a demented preacher. The beauty is to be found in the devotional attention, the noise attrition, the way notes linger and seem to last for eternities, the layering of noise upon noise, note upon note, the sudden CRACK of drum and pounding inside your head. The beauty lies in the stillness, the brief tempest change. You don’t need me to describe Swans in 2023, surely? You already have a vision, a sound in your head. Not to be taken lightly. Scary, in the way cults are usually scary. Beautiful, in the way cults are often beautiful. Loud <<– goes without saying.

Yeah, it was an experience.