Swans, Saint Luke’s, Glasgow ***

Swans emerged from NYC’s experimental no wave scene in the early 1980s. They’ve been together off and on ever since, although leader Michael Gira is the only original member. Saint Luke’s, with its imposing pipe organ display and stained glass windows, provided a suitably sepulchral setting for this pummelling onslaught of noise rock.

Gira remained seated throughout, a grey pony-tailed man with a tombstone visage and battered acoustic guitar who occasionally conducted the cacophony via a swirling raised hand. A grizzled old sailor in the belly of the beast.

Michael Gira of Swans PIC: Jason Kempin/Getty Images

Swans are intense, hypnotic, enervating and absurd, often all at once. Despite – or rather because of – their gargantuan self-seriousness, I find them quite funny. And I think they’d understand why. You probably need, at least on some level, a morbid sense of humour to create music as deliberately ugly and punishing as this.

I was particularly amused whenever Gira dropped into his growling “scary” voice. I swear at one point he even made a “woooooo” sound like a cartoon ghost. He must know what he’s doing.

During one of the few moments where he “broke character” and spoke politely to the audience, he even got a laugh by comparing himself unfavourably to Frank Sinatra.

And when, after 90 minutes of relentless noise, they suddenly performed a pretty VU-esque ballad, it felt like another deadpan joke (although the song itself is entirely sincere).

Most of Gira’s lyrics are sub-Jim Morrison doggerel, which isn’t necessarily intended as an insult to either artist. Not really. Swans are unabashedly pretentious and self-indulgent, and I applaud them for that.

Gira has devoted most of his adult life to making uncompromising art. I don’t particularly like the art he makes, but I admire his maverick dedication. I’m glad he exists.

Music review: Swans, Saint Luke’s, Glasgow