Swans began in 1982 and, prior to this year, had been inactive since ’97, which explains the rampant greyness/haggardness onstage. But that only adds to the six-man crew’s ludicrous glowering menace, their nihilistic post-apocalyptic post-punk as thunderous and concussive as ever, Gira front and center ranting like a doomsday preacher, rocking back and forth, tracing slow circles with his hands, shaking violently as though caught mid-exorcism, visibly hyperventilating, etc. etc. He points at a bare spot onstage and two trombone players materialize; he spurs them on or silences them with single deadly glance. It’s a command performance, worthy of the Glowering Menace Hall of Fame. (To date the single scariest moment of my concert-going career was watching Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds walk onstage.) Not that he’s joyless — he smiles broadly when he notices that his bassist has busted a string that’s not just hanging there looking like an industrial-strength bridge cable. “Is this fun?” he asks us, smirking, deadly serious. “I’m having fun.” – Village Voice
Setlist:
No Words, No Thoughts
Your Property
Sex, God, Sex
Jim
I Crawled
My Birth
Beautiful Child
Eden Prison
(encore)
Little Mouth
Reviews: Brooklyn Vegan | Self-Titled TV | Stereogum | Village Voice
Video Credits: spider418 | insurgoergosum | NextMosh
See Als0 – Chris Becker Photostream on Flickr
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