Something alchemical occurs each October when Cardiff breathes its last leaves of summer. Sŵn comes to town with neither a bang nor a whimper but, as has become its wont, a cacophony, sweat, and soul. It is a festival that doesn’t follow hype, but creates it. And then, in 2024, with nine venues thumping for three days, Sŵn showed that, now as ever, it’s the grassroots giant cowering in plain sight.
Opening for them is Windmill alumni Automotion, so that you can ease into the weekend with some seriously cool, almost glacial music. Lennon Gallagher is a man of few words, but his sharp guitar lines are notable. No antics, no filler, just raw, patient indie-rock, that which demands you listen, not scroll.
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Such is the beauty of Sŵn, how quickly the sonic scenery can change. One minute, you’re rocked to sleep by Talulah’s bilingual jazz grooves, and the next you’re jolted by the roar of GANS at The Moon, where it’s so loud the pavement outside feels like it’s moshing.
Theatrical gloom-pop from Circe, and the sweet chaos of Paige Kennedy cutting through the noise and charming pants off with cheeky storytelling and the best merch bag of the fest. No, seriously, Manchester cool meets French supermarket.
By Friday evening, the question isn’t who you want to see anymore but who you can get to. Buzzard Buzzard Buzzard do a stomp of glam-soaked madness at Tramshed, while, meanwhile, back at Ifor, Kitty swirls herself into delirium in latex and glitch-pop glory. Between all that, Anwar Siziba provides a gentle cleansing reset before OneDa ramps things up to “rave,” with her post-AIMS win set that takes no prisoners.
The finale day on Saturday plays almost like a gift-wrapped mixtape: a bit of shoegaze courtesy of She’s In Parties, all-out chaos from Alien Chicks, they lay waste to ‘Teddy Bears’ Picnic’, a howling singalong with Mary In The Junkyard. If you’re lucky, you’ll get the fashionably sardonic Ellie Bleach before having to leg it to see English Teacher, with the Mercury win shite firmly under the bridge and total domination going on.
But the real exclamation point is Lambrini Girls. Phoebe Lunny performs, instead, lives in the pit, turning Tramshed into her gloriously headbanging playground-slash-warzone and even launching herself off the mezzanine for good measure -because why the hell not? Somehow, they are sweaty, wild, and unforgettable; that’s how a live show should be.
As closing Nightbus notes evaporate into the early morning, people sway and their heads spin. Sŵn doesn’t go out with a bang, it fades. It’s not following trends; it’s chasing moments.” And there were plenty of them at Sŵn 2024, in Cardiff.
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