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Some more soul-devouring Swans for your enjoyment.
plot of knives
"In Hinduism, “om” is the single most important syllable of existence, representing the confluence of deep sleep, dreams, and consciousness, and their mystic separation from the idea of the absolute which is beyond everyday human comprehension. There are also connections with the life cycle - the sound “om” being made of “a” which represents creation and Brahma, “u” which is Vishnu or the middle period of life, and “m” represents Shiva, whose meditation frees us from the concrete world. Om is a trinity, the exact components of which depend on which interpretation you’re using. I won’t pretend to be an expert in Hindu myth or meaning, but these basic tidbits are enough on their own to at least partially explain the sounds contained on Conference of the Birds. And while it may be mere coincidence that Om formed out of two thirds of Sleep (you could probably debate which two parts of the “om” Al Cisneros and Chris Hakius represent, but it would only make any sense if you were either a huge metalhead, a giant stoner, a Hindu scholar, or some combination of the three), the symbolic connection between the two in this context is too much to ignore. To get perhaps a bit too literal here, om is the step beyond sleep towards some kind of transcendence. Which isn’t to say that music of Om is any “deeper” or “more advanced” than that of Sleep, just that it operates on a different level with a different set of tools.
Conference of the Birds is structurally and sonically similar to its predecessor, Variations on a Theme – repeated bass licks and drum patterns that gradually evolve over the course of about 15 minutes. The second song (each song spans about 20 tracks, presumably to thwart piracy), “Flight of the Eagle,” could very easily be the fourth track on Variations both in character and in sound. Cisneros’ bass sound is dense and fuzzy and his vocals are an imposing chant musing on some mythic journey or battle occurring in ancient Egypt, while Hakius keeps a solid beat centered around his bell-like cymbal.
“At Giza,” on the other hand, represents a very different side of the group, one much closer to the concept of om than anything else they’ve done. Simply put, the music is much tauter than before, with less overall weight. The bass tone is clean, devoid of any distracting distortion, the drums are slower, more hypnotic, the vocals more an incantation than a chant, returning to words like “sentient,” “aperture,” and other archaic multisyllabics. And while the imagery is more an opium-den vision than a meditative dream, the words are there more as sounds and rhythm and quickly lose their meaning.
Whether you view it as stoner wisdom, opium hallucination, or mystic journey, this album is about transcendence. The Conference of the Birds is, amongst other things, a 12th century Sufi metaphysical parable on discovering the true nature of God, mimicking the journey of the avatar protagonist of both of Om’s songs. Farid ud-Din Attar’s poem comes to the conclusion that God is not to be found in a single place but all around, in every aspect of life and the world. So despite the fact that Om comes from the Hindu, references the Sufi, and uses the language of the Egyptian, they draw from each the same idea: that the world beyond the tactile is not that far away." - Dan Ruccia
In a possibly symbolic move, Yellow Swans quit their long-standing appellation vice – affixing a random word beginning with ‘d’ to their name, i.e. Dusk Yellow Swans – for Bring the Neon War Home (the band’s first on Broadway-based Narnack). The edit reflects the album’s stringent, serious agenda, which progresses through its five tracks with an almost cinematic sense of purpose. This is noise as narrative. Older releases, like the Demos Yellow Swans 12” on Weird Forest, used similar means – tape loops, guitar feedback – and contained equally convulsive crescendos and brooding pools of electric tension, but bled/morphed with much more of a languid, lost motion. Like submerged currents. Or blurred visions.
Neon War, however, is the sound of Yellow Swans seeing clearly. The production is incredibly crisp and clean, and many of the movements are driven by prominent drum machine rhythms, which are an oddly concrete element for such an immaterial, abstract band. The mechanized percussion harnesses their drifting noise clouds, tethering the chaos into a dense, claustrophobic space, much like Ministry used to do. In fact, “Police Eternity,” the dark, angry opener, is the kind of pummeling, goth-industrial hell-storm most Nine Inch Nails acolytes would die for.
From there, Yellow Swans bask back a little into the looming, resonant emptiness they’re such masters of, bashing out zig-zags of reverb eruptions and scraping metal arcs, slowly snowballing a murky mountain of rumble and rubble. “High On the Mountain of Love” is pure Yellow Swans – escapist, idealist, amorphous, amorous. It is all too brief.
Both the third song and the title track explode with more uncharacteristic darkwave dance beats, moody blips and beeps; neon shrapnel and dystopian delay-pedal declarations. The text accompanying “Neon War” could easily serve as this record’s aesthetic thesis statement: “Shake. Shake your death rattle. The Reagan era’s not over? Vietnam’s not over? Bring the war home. Bring the Drug war home. Bring the neon war home. Bring it all back home.” These are overt words from a covert band. Bring the Neon War Home is Yellow Swans’ Combat Rock. It’s their defiance, their demands, their stance, their circumstance. Decades from now, Bush will be just another history textbook monster, a bad memory, but this record will remain, and remind." - Britt Brown