Sex Swing are the British underground supergroup that shouldn’t even exist.
One member has survived a plane crash. One has survived (and won) a chess/boxing match against an opponent with the (entirely deserved) nickname ‘The Finnish Hammer’. Another has survived being struck by lightning.
Dealing in sweaty groove and physical menace Sex Swing are musically tied to an England both squalid and hallucinatory: rain-soaked and rat-bitten but also (genuinely) psychedelic. Because while psych - a contentious phrase at the best of times - is often thought of in terms of beatific hypercolour and can readily encompass everything from jangling 60’s revivalists to bedroom laptop alchemists, Sex Swing operate at the brutal end: a greyscale dockland in a warped hive mind screwed by lack of sleep and haunted by the twisted waking dreams that inevitably ensue: waves of cranial discomfort tempered by the pure physical release of the music.