Veering away from the anthemic toward something more like a conversation with oneself on a long walk, Surfing Strange is a picture of a band not in transition, but in an especially quick process of maturation. The results end up being no less instantly exciting, but more lasting and poignant than what came before.
Swearin’ are a powerful force with an ability to switch between soft and hard in a similar way to ’90s alt.rock heroes The Breeders.
There's a wonderful, rough-edged appeal to Surfing Strange, full of hooks that Rivers Cuomo might've written before he started sucking.
Be it unhinged escapism or some old fashioned melodrama, there's a goofiness to Swearin''s impressive strut that ends up becoming endearing, leaves them standing out in a cluttered crowd.
Given how heavily, and how often, Swearin’ tend to lean on some glaringly obvious influences here, it’s remarkable that they’ve managed to put together an effort that sounds like much more than the sum of its parts.
Surfing takes the disenchanted bits of Swearin' and blows them out into 34 minutes of honed unrest—it's a self-aware, deliberate, and ultimately truthful sophomore slump.
Indignation, nostalgia, and reevaluation all lurk in Surfing Strange, emerging at the opportune moments and injecting some relevance into indie rock.
Swearin’ have reached the point where they’re almost too good at what they do. Surfing Strange boasts impeccable museum pieces, but its scuffed edges are what draw in the deepest.
Surfing's real aces lie where Swearin' marry their newer, more morose tendencies to the fearsome energy that made them great in the first place.