Swans: Spells of Sex, Religion, and Cosmic Horror in Birthing

Michael Gira’s obsession with sex and religion continues in Birthing—two primal forces that have haunted him for decades, and which now explode with such intensity that he could very well be Nick Cave’s kindred spirit.

The Healers, the album’s opening track, is simply spectacular. A beast that wakes slowly, crawling through the dark. A piece of pure gothic terror that fiercely expands the legacy of bands like Bauhaus. But it’s also cosmic horror—a summoning that would fit perfectly in the most daring films by Ari Aster. With Swans, you know something terrible is lurking. You can’t see it, you don’t know when it’s coming—and that’s exactly what makes them brilliant. Gira and his band build more tension than Hitchcock himself. It's pure cancer for the anxious. A brutal explosion of power that detonates with terrifying violence when you least expect it. Madness on an epic scale. What a way to start an album.

I Am a Tower is a difficult track, one that demands patience. But not like a favor—it demands it like a hunter demanding patience… from its prey. This song takes me to many places. First, it reminds me of when I was obsessed with Tibetan throat chants—those otherworldly sonic masses emerging from monks’ throats, combined with minimalist percussion, filling the space as if it were sacred. But it also evokes Godspeed You! Black Emperor and their ritualistic compositions. And it makes sense: Swans has been a major influence on the anarchist Canadian band. There are folk explorations, and Gira sounds possessed. First by the spirit of Jim Morrison. Then—in a twist I still haven’t processed—by the spirit of David Bowie in “Heroes.” Hearing is believing.

Birthing, the title track, is the album’s most ethereal piece. Many will think of Popol Vuh or Tangerine Dream. It’s easy to imagine Werner Herzog entranced by this sonic ritual. There’s folk here, krautrock too, and a colossal percussion—Swans’ signature—that holds everything together with ancient force. There’s something deeply transcendent in this song, both challenging and uplifting. Gira and company don’t write songs—they cast spells. Birthing could have been co-written by The Doors, Nick Cave, Popol Vuh, and Blue Cheer—if such a mix were even imaginable. Swans’ music has transcended any concept of “band.” They’re not making music anymore. They’re channeling spirits. Swans is a cult.

Red Yellow is beautiful. Probably the most accessible track on the entire album. Though, of course, “accessible” is relative on a two-hour record where songs average over ten minutes. Here, krautrock minimalism unfolds brilliantly. With Gira at the helm, a Tomorrow Never Knows-style trance rises up, with clear flashes of free jazz.

Guardian Spirit is another testament to the band’s towering maturity. They’re no longer chasing immediate impact. They’re aiming higher—for eternity. And within the universe they’ve created, Swans can no longer make a wrong move. What’s heavy here isn’t the volume or distortion—it’s the void. It’s the emotion. A song as subtle as it is terrifying—a rare combination. But nothing prepares us for what comes next.

The Merge is pure horror. A brutal wall of sound not meant for fragile ears. The bass conjures the heaviest version of Soundgarden—the Louder Than Love era—though filtered through a no wave machine. It’s as if something decided to drag you down to the earth’s core… wearing headphones.

Away closes the album just as powerfully as everything that came before. Gira’s voice, at times, recalls Bowie. But also Lou Reed in the 1970s. In the end, it’s Gira’s imagination that shines brightest. His ability to summon the very best of experimental music—the kind that has no fear of doing things differently. The kind that decomposes and transforms. Or mutates. Until it becomes pure sound.

Birthing is a magnificent album. After nearly twenty releases, Swans deliver—boldly, even arrogantly—one of the best records of their entire career. And they do it without holding back: two hours of absolute genius.