You know those skinny little Scandinavian sissy-boy metal bands? The ones with the corpse paint and the studded leather outfits who try to act all scary? I suspect the British brawlers and bruisers of Sex Swing could wipe the floor with the lot of them and not break a sweat. Assuming those church-torching pussies even had the balls to take them on in the first place. Which they don’t — and surely wouldn’t once they heard the firm’s fearsome and ferocious sophomore album Type II. Between the unstoppable momentum and swaggering menace of their low-slung grooves, the imposingly noisy wall of grinding guitars and bass, the distorted, broken-megaphone sound of their vocals and their impenetrably dense no-fi production, these seven relentless displays of attitude, aggression and antagonism are the musical equivalent of being slowly stalked by a feral predator. Or at least various members of Swans, Stooges and PigsX7. But with a saxophone. Duck and cover...
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