Swans can break a man’s arm. The animals too. The Beggar is the work of people. Dangerous environments are the work of people entering the domain of the animal. Never the two shall meet. For Swans, then, the legendary experimental rock group and not the feathered creature, this is a time to make good on their legacy. A band formed some decades ago and still plugging away as The Damned, The Rolling Stones and, technically, The Beatles are. Give it up for the legends when they earn their praise – The Beggar is certainly a showcase of necessary acclaim. Their beastly two-hour album is a fascination, not just for their forty-three minute The Beggar Lover (Three) but for the grand orchestral feel to opener The Parasite.
Fearful and filled to the brim with decadence, Swans channel a droner rock intricacy to this opening development. Long and winding screeches achingly played out as frontman Michael Gira guides the chilling experience, exposing a country-like vocal range subdued by the darker core of The Beggar. Paradise is Mine hopes for the same flow but with less muffling on Gira. He is given a platform to stage some wilder intonations, the same creeping and monotone voice pushing through, suffering along with little flickers of acoustic guitar. Another muted collection of horrors, this time featuring what may as well be the rising cries of an alarm clock going off in the other room, appears on the nicely paced and shortest track Los Angeles: City of Death. Pair those fears with the surprising uplift present on Michael is Done and there comes Swans’ greatest asset – the ability to shift and turn candour while maintaining a consistent mood.
Isolated vocals on Unforming, the barely heard but intricate playing underneath Gira, sets an inspired tone for The Beggar. Repeating cries for freedom hold no intensity but seem at peace with a lack of liberation. There is something unapologetically Dawn of the Dead about the structure and mood taken on this title track, a simmering and self-devouring piece which builds and builds before the cries of Gira come through. The Beggar slowly grows into an all-time favourite, a delicate and tender collection of sounds which work against one another – yet sound so lush as they do so. No More of This is a tender high, warning of time and its engulfing nature. It is Leonard Cohen in nature, warm in its desire and truthful in its warnings. Flickers of Rowland S. Howard come through the needy thumps of Why Can’t I Have What I Want Any Time That I Want It?, and settle in well before the stormy forty-three-minute blast of The Beggar Love (Three).
Deep within recommending The Beggar is a smug feel to tipping an album with a forty-three-minute-long track as an essential listen. It is, though. Regardless of the time spent with this one, do not fear it. It may be one of the weaker tracks The Beggar has to offer but what an instrumental achievement. The lengthier the track the more can go wrong, but as the bells ring in and the grinding, droner rock style comes through, it becomes clear Swans are one of the few groups artistically capable of doing this. Plenty of people can play for hours on end, but few hold themselves up as long-form creatives. Swans and Richard Dawson, take a bow. For the rest, keep listening to The Beggar and hope for a flicker of inspiration.
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