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WITH THE vocals rendered inaudible by an ocean of guitars, first-time acquaintances of Swervedriver are presented solely with a sumptuously appointed racket. For ali I can tell, vocalist Adam could be singing in Esperanto. But, as sweat drenched and noise-hungry as Ride in a sauna, Swervedriver's Americanised indie-grunge scores a direct hit with the audience.
Shyly hopping around like a school of incontinent lemmings through the opening grindstorm of 'Sci-Flyer', the kids start hitting the floor-literally-as Adam, his dreads seeming to sprout from his scalp like worms crawling from an apple, nonchalantly peels the rusted chords of 'Sandblasted' from his guitar. At times the line of politely waiting stage-divers is longer, and more desperate, than the queue forthe bogs at Reading.
If 'Sandblasted' reached the parts that the first couple of songs failed to reach, then 'Rave Down' reached them, took them outside and administered a severe slapping. Possibly Swerved river's finest moment, 'Rave Down' is a head-on collision of chaotically raging guitars and a nerve numbing tune that stands out from the rest of the set like a ventriloquist ata funeral.
Swervedriver, while not yet the standard by which others should be judged, are no longer the bottom of the Creation class either. Though weaknesses are evident throughout the dozen or so songs of the set several travelling way beyond the boredom threshold Swervedriver's grimy maze of distorted guitars and contorted rhythms is often intensely affecting. They are an overwhelming physical experience, like being battered about the head with an over-sized kaleidoscope.
Jonny Thatcher

Originally Appeared in NME?
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