Sex Swing have a dirty name. Their record sleeves, meanwhile, feature images of manky-looking blubbery things which are probably dead and no doubt give off a horrendous stench. It's all one big hoax, though, because their music is actually a soothing cross between the more uplifting end of Little Mix and the timeless yacht-rock anthems of Robbie Dupree.
Only joking. Who are we kidding? Sex Swing make the type of filthy fookin' racket that makes you want to take a wash afterwards. The water will dribble out of your mouldy showerhead, combining with the tears trickling from your bloodshot eyes, resulting in a veritable cocktail of shame. On album number two there's a palpable post punk vibe which brings to mind acts like Public Image Ltd, The Pop Group and The Birthday Party. Sex Swing's cacophony is often heavier and denser than that vintage bunch of scruffy experimentalists, mind. It's almost as if someone's rattled through the best chapters from Simon Reynolds' Rip It Up And Start Again, drank too much cider on a merry-go-round, gone to prison for pushing Lewis Capaldi down a steel stairwell, spent much of the incarceration listening to The Mirror by GNOD, had a breakdown, self-tattooed an upside-down crucifix on their bicep, emerged the other side with white hairs in their beard that now houses an extended family of lice, and decided to record an album documenting their mood. OUCH!
See the full piece here: The Quietus