Old

Reviewed by Caleb Browne

I watched the old man who brought us by boat to Great Paradise earlier that day grab a cod, jamming his thick, calloused thumb into the eye-socket, and quickly fillet it with a cleaning knife that was probably twice my age. He then let me try. I impotently fingered the eye-socket, squirming as I displaced the eye, and left half the meat still on the bones with my cut. I figured I didn’t have the hands for it, my fingers too short and skinny compared to his. But later, his hands moved gentler, his fingers hitting the accordion’s keys easing it in and out and in and out like he had done for decades. I never had the hands for music either. He had a pensive brow while he played, like he was thinking of times gone by. When he finished we all clapped for him and he said through a thick Newfoundland accent, “My grandson plays music too, but it’s not quite as soft as this. Have you ever heard of Nick Hunt on YouTube?”

Of course I had.

Nick Hunt is one-third of the band Swimming alongside Liam Ryan and Jacob Cherwick. Swimming, if you don’t know already, is as ubiquitous in the St. John’s music scene as India Beer and toques rolled up past the ear. If you’ve ever found yourself packed into the second room of the Peter E or in a stranger’s basement filled with body heat and head banging, you’ve definitely heard them. In fact, you’ve probably heard the very songs that make up their new album Old. Swimming’s sophomore album is aptly titled, for many of the songs have been floating around St. John’s in various forms for many years now.

Time is out of joint in Old. Not just in the nature of the project, but in the lyrics too, as they find themselves reflecting on the past. Old looks back on a time which looks back on another time. “All my homies say they miss the good old days / I never really got that point of view,” they sing in the opening track, “You Smell Like Phys Ed.” Old reflects on the past but resists getting stuck in it. Similarly, “Basement” reflects on a time when “Time never meant anything” when they spent time “Watching TV, getting stoned at my old house,” and they follow with, “My parents own the basement now.” Even the music video for “Reports,” shot on 8mm film by Liam Ryan and produced and edited by Jacob Cherwick, has the grainy nostalgic aesthetic of home videos, featuring footage of road trips, guerilla concerts in abandoned buildings, and candid moments hanging out around Newfoundland. The album’s final track — “Charlie,” the 7-minute-long climax to the album — features Maria Cherwick and Brian Cherwick, Jacob Cherwick’s sister and father, playing the violin and the accordion respectively, bringing in people that Jacob grew up playing music with.

Though the lyrics look back, the music is propulsive. Rarely am I given the chance to breathe by the album, but nor do I find myself looking for that opportunity. I am swept up in it for the entirety of the 30-minute runtime. In that sense, Swimming accomplishes one of their goals for the album — set out on their Instagram — by “capturing the raw, intimate vibe of the tight, sweaty St. John’s house shows where the band first cut their teeth” while also bringing a disjointed time to the present.

Caleb J. Browne (they/them) is a writer born in Newfoundland and Labrador, and raised throughout the Newfoundland-diaspora. They are pursuing a joint honours degree in English and Philosophy at the Memorial University of Newfoundland along with a diploma in Creative Writing. They are also editor-in-chief at toothcut journal.