The Water Rats, London 27th October 2007
Even though it’s about as far from the stuff he plays these days as a non-executive directorship is from a proper job, the spectre of Swans‘ Cop weighs heavily on proceedings tonight- particularly its mantric repetition of the phrase “THE HEAT… HURTS! THE HEAT… HURTS!” Mr Gira, avuncular and smiling, has decreed that the lights be turned on full. On the audience. And that the air-conditioning be turned off.
It’s fucking boiling. I dunno… if most performers did that, everyone’d fuck off. But we stay, because it’s Gira, and because in a strange way, the discomfort adds to the experience. And what an experience. Beginning with “God Damn The Sun” (from Swans’ criminally-underrated first major step away from noise The Burning World), Gira treats us to an
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