Review Summary: "This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang, but a whimper."
Listening to post-reunion Swans is a lot like reading a Where’s Waldo book. A colorful, two-page spread of rock music is presented before you. Everything appears to be identical, and you start to think,
“How many people in this ballroom are wearing a goddamn red-and-white striped pullover?!”
And then you find Waldo. All is well.
“Oh, I get it now! I rate this book 4.5 stars!”
The Glowing Man is a Where’s Waldo book without Waldo. Yes, the album still has all the trademark post-rock crescendos and Glenn Branca-esque noise you’ve come to expect from the group– in fact, I would argue that these components are painstakingly turned up to 11. With this, however, the album is lacking what made Swans’ past few releases so entertaining:
conviction.
The first two tracks are actually quite good. In the first, descending piano scales juxtapose gritty new wave soundscapes, creating something deliciously apocalyptic. The second track is the logical conclusion to this iteration of Swans’ we’ve been waiting for, with the slower, folkier moments seamlessly weaving themselves in with repetitive, pounding guitar chords. Back-to-back, these two tracks are Swans’ most fully-realized musical rupture since Soundtracks For The Blind. Unfortunately, as is the case for many long-running rock acts, any given track’s emotional impact is dampened by the group’s own hackneyed idiosyncrasies. Yes, it’s interesting, but in the end, it’s just another Swans song.
The title track is presumably the album’s focal point, but in it lies the main problem with much of the album– it’s incredibly boring. What made To Be Kind so entertaining was it’s no-holds-barred approach to songwriting, where guitar riffs gleefully and effectively overstayed their welcome. In contrast Gira seems to be less confident in the strength of the songs on The Glowing Man, as is evidenced by the cheap and plentiful dynamic changes (i.e. an over-reliance on “surprise” guitar chords) scattered throughout this 3LP. "Frankie M" is occasionally effective, but ends up sounding like an elderly man’s amateur attempt at acid rock, most notably during the awkward transition towards the middle. Meanwhile, the title track is a promising barrage of ideas that ultimately result in an epic pile of mush. Waldo is dead and we killed him.
Many fans will interpret this album's outward expressions of artistic frustration as a new standard of sonic intensity. For this reason I can’t help but feel like this was a wasted opportunity. Aside from the first two tracks, Swans’ latest effort is a stale amalgamation of contrived neofolk and tired attempts at post-rock that lasts for an hour longer than it should. If this is the last we hear from the legendary Swans, I will be sorely disappointed.
