Seward: Wind-Up Toy Robots
Having intended to spend my time at The Great Escape in one fashion (ice cream on the delightful beach, beers in the delightful pubs, bands in the delightful venues), I ended up spending it slightly differently: missing all the bands I intended to see, studiously avoiding all cone-holstered gelato desserts, and accidentally DJing at the excellent Recommender-run Blogger Meet Up.
Planning what to do at a music festival is foolish in the extreme, and going with the flow is the only real course of action.
Besides, if I’d followed a plan, I’d never have caught the bewildering, fascinating, confusing Seward, a band who have so little web presence, that I’ve been reduced to posting this incomplete video of the band as proof that they even exist at all.
Instead of describing what a remarkable band Seward actually are, or how they achieve remarkableness, maybe it’s best to describe the moment that their drummer – a man rapt at the array of gentle, subtle noises a drumkit can make – wound up a toy tin robot and let it dance on his snare drum as he continued playing with a string of rusted cowbells.
There are many bands who approach music like Seward. They are all, without exception, shit. They are all indulgent, self-centred, and unkind to their audience.
Seward are the exact opposite: their timing is perfect, their noises are specific and considered, and their purpose may not be defined, but it is rational. The band is lost in the beauty of noise-making, and the path it beats into human consciousness.
Part experience, part music, all brilliant.
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