“The music had an affect on people, and it’s a great thing to discover,” Michael Gira commented when I interviewed him a few weeks ago, speaking to the physical effect of a live Swans show in the group’s early days. On stage at Mohawk Friday night, for the first date of a 2011 West Coast tour, Swans took on a different shape, but volume was still its secret weapon.
The first 15 minutes of the set was essentially the sound of a machine warming up after 20 years: bells ringing, drone commencing, figures appearing. “No Words/No Thoughts,” from 2010’s My Father Will Guide Me Up a Rope to the Sky, finally got the train on the tracks, and the at-capacity crowd was tied to them. The sixpiece worked together in slow motion, Gira, dressed in black, the linchpin.
His mid-set paroxysm (“Jesus Christ, come down now!”) on “Sex, God, Sex” brought the train to a grinding halt, his eyes turned upward, face turning red. Suddenly he was the preacher. Elsewhere, he was the maestro, fixing his gaze on drummer Phil Puleo, then bassist Chris Pravdica, then Thor Harris, who was the night’s MVP. The local percussionist, tucked in a corner, shirtless and wild-eyed, banged on what seemed like an endless supply of instruments, many of which he designed himself.
For close to two hours, we were subjected to a sort of religious event, which is what Gira’s been attempting since Swans started in 1982. For one night, transcendence was achieved. An encore brought the band back on stage, but it was only Gira who sang, unaccompanied, for less than a minute. Then he put on his cowboy hat, and walked off into the night.
This article appears in February 18 • 2011.