Revered by some, reviled by most, the Swans thumped their way into late '80s notoriety with their primordial contributions to that era's avant garde rock scene. As the years evolved, the band began to don a more accessible musical vocabulary, but Thirsty Ear Records has opted to revivify the more jarring, pre-industrial sounds documented in earlier recordings. After a solid 2½ hours of sonic torment, my fatigued mind wishes to posit one simple question to these purveyors of misbegotten drivel: why?

My prior exposure to the Swans, though limited, provided a relatively positive experience. In my naïve mind, they were the band responsible for a visceral interpretation of the Joy Division classic, "Love Will Tear Us Apart." Imagine this reviewer's surprise when he heard the first Neanderthal- like intimations of Cop and its regurgitated vocals puked onto a canopy of droning drum beats and minimalist guitar distortion. Sure, the band was providing an appropriate backdrop for their lyrical examination of alienation, depression, loneliness, and sadomasochism, and the resultant effect of disgust and abomination may have been intended, but these "artistic" justifications did nothing to foster an appreciation of the audio schmat I felt obligated to withstand. What's more, the songs take on insufferable lengths of time, clocking in at between four and seven minutes each, despite the fact that the same riff is repeated almost indefinitely.

"Okay," I says to myself. "I know the band mellowed out considerably later in their career. Perhaps the designation of both a 'Black' and 'White' CD is meant to suggest a dualistic experiment with sound. Having suffered through the entrail- piercing horror of the former, the listener has now been conditioned to better appreciate the pleasures of the latter platter." Well, my friends, I regret to say I was only partially correct with my surmising.

The second disc is certainly an improvement upon the first, but occasionally subject to the same unnerving patterns which ultimately make most of the music in this collection unlistenable. The Cro-Magnon percussion has been fittingly replaced by a drum machine, but the repetitions still last for ungodly amounts of time (up until nearly eight minutes in one case!); female vocalist Jarboe sparingly offers soothing contrast to the underlying chaos, yet Michael Gira's abrasive diatribes remain; occasionally, an actual melody manages to peak its head above the calamitous fray, but like a rose in a desert, it withers away in a foreign and hostile environment unfit to sustain beauty.

Admittedly, I speak from a position of privilege. Separated some 15 years from the original appearance of these albums, it's hard for me to appreciate the "innovations" ushered by them, though I'm certain the Swans inspired more than a few noteworthy acts. The self- loathing lyrics and droning cadences of the early material bear more than a slight resemblance to Nirvana's Bleach, and the factory- precise machinations of the "White" disc illuminates the Swans' role as pioneers of the industrial movement. Incapable of appreciating these effects now, however, I'm left to gauge the music according to current standards, which, sorry to say, doesn't reflect too kindly on the band. If I'm going to inflict this kind of pain on myself, I'd rather hit myself repeatedly in the head with a ball- ping hammer.

-Kevin Ruggeri