Courtesy of Young God Records.

It seems that many of the year’s most memorable stories in the musical world had near-nothing to do with music. From celebrity romances to meme-ready remixes, the experience of sitting down and listening to an album in its entirety seems of dwindling importance. Thankfully, Swans mastermind Michael Gira has remained blissfully unaware of his surroundings for the past 30 or so years and To Be Kind is the product only a group of isolated men on the brink of insanity are capable of creating.

As is the story of most Swans releases, the band breaks new ground, but smear their distinct fingerprints all over it. Once momentum picks up, the listener is grabbed by the throat and pinned to the floor, but this time, there are some hooks and grooves in the violence. “A Little God In My Hands” and “Oxygen” even work as singles, but only as Swans would have them: deafening, hypnotic, and seven minutes long. Even ethereal, crystalline openings like “Kirsten Supine” and “To Be Kind” eventually give way to earth-scorching, thrashing rage.

Besides these quasi-welcoming additions,To Be Kind follows in the vein of post-reformation Swans: gargantuan in sound and length, a nightmare trip down the schizoid rabbit hole of Gira’s imagination. There’s an almost religious yearning to enter another world, but one that is hardly heavenly. Gira’s world is the revolting underbelly of material life – a mixture of id, Marquis de Sade, and David Lynch. One gorgeous moment features the band locking into an apocalyptic groove and chanting a chorus of Hallelujahs, while Gira screams “Your name is fuck, fuck, fuck.” Other choice primordial lyrics include: “Oh shit and blood, forever love” and “I sleep in the belly of woman, of man, of rhythm, of love / I’m just a little boy.”

Yes, this record tops two hours and features a single song that clocks in at over half an hour, but good things come to those who wait. To Be Kind is a journey into the very depths of what makes us breathing, shitting, loving, fucking human beings, at once tortuous and euphoric, beautiful and abhorrent. Even as Gira turns 60, Swans find themselves at the top of their game, each deformed contortion as unmistakably refreshing and challenging as their no-wave days.