Swans - The Beggar
Young God Records
Swans sixteenth studio album clocks in at the laborious length of two hours - a runtime that Swans fans have come to expect over time. Two hours, for a sonic work, is quite the lengthy piece. However, as proven over the years, Gira and co. are more than capable of meeting it with the necessary answers as to why. Records like 'The Beggar' fall in line with the extended ethos - the deeper the emotion, the deeper the dive in to them.
Front-runners for most consistent act known to man - although the band/Gira has taken years away from the Swans sound - Swans defy a set convention. You know roughly what you're going to get, but you can never be sure as to whether it can be pulled off, yet again.
The sinister sound of Swans' slow-burning aesthetic steadily sedates listeners with haunting nursery rhymes and lullabies. Sleep tight princess - enjoy your nightmares. See you in the morning when you're a shell of your former self - not that you know what that means. Not that you even realise that you're alive in any way, shape or form. None of this will even make any sense until you're older and deeply scarred by the scathing experience - too late, the deed is deep down and done; incurable. Steps can be taken to pull things back together again, but the soul heals in ways akin to the flesh of burn victims - grown grotesquely, never the same again.
Warped minds understand warped worlds - this may be the defining factor of the 'close to home' aura of Swans material. Too near to bear, too hot to touch. The sinister side of life is always looking for a new friend. It yearns for that fellow to confide in. The weak fall in and find themselves under the strings of the beggar. Living for hand-outs. Scraping the barrel for a sniff at something else. You will live the life that you've been given - beggars can't be choosers. The end of the line is near - it rears its head in the distance. You can beg for more time, though the line doesn't care. There's no time of day for those that have squandered theirs. Pitiless scum. Unable to see. Unable to hear. Unable to feel. You beg for respect, but won't respect yourself. You beg to be loved, but won't love yourself. Your mind won't stop screaming, you give it no choice. Misery is the default state.
Am I ready to die? Is there really a mind?
Could this be the departure of Swans from the world in which they cruelly cast beautifully sullen shadows on for decades?
