A decade ago Swans were a seminal noise band, a contemporary influence on Sonic Youth and a predecessor to Nine Inch Nails. But Swans' aggressively ugly music – loud, slow and monotonously grinding – combined with singer M. Gira's queasy lyric stew of sadistic sex and violence guaranteed a limited audience. Since then they've somehow persevered, largely unheard, on the fringe's fringe. Even more surprising, given their monotonic original sound, they've evolved.

The current Swans consist of Gira on vocals, guitar and miscellaneous sounds, and a woman named Jarboe on vocals and keyboards, plus whoever they can get to fill out the rhythm section. The music has opened up a great deal. Acoustic guitar and nearly New Age electronic pastels are as likely to be part of the mix as the band's signature metallic harshness. What have remained are Gira's transgressive lyrics and brutal attitude. Annihilator is rife with tales of mutilating murderers either in love with their victims or the power of their own cruelty. Gira structures his songs like repetitive loops – a few bars in and you've usually heard the whole scheme – and this lack of resolution, of catharsis, contributes to the overall ominous feel. Add to this Gira's deep, weary drawl – his monsters, while never appealing, sound disturbingly human – and you have horror stories for grown-ups.

On his solo album, Gira's music tends to be sparser, but old obsessions are maintained. On two songs, "You See Through Me" and "Blind," he drops his gargoyle disguise long enough to let you glimpse the genuinely disturbing personality underneath. You get a feeling of what feeds his horrid fascinations, and it's riveting.

Gira is a player on Jarboe's Sacrificial Cake; although she seems to have been influenced by his grand guignol tendencies, Jarboe never comes close to Gira's authenticity. As much as she rattles her sound-effects chains and resorts to spooky recitation, the sense of mere playacting is never overcome. And although the music is imaginatively impressionistic, it rarely coheres.

With Gira, you get one man's unpleasant feelings forged into expressive grotesqueries reflecting a darker side of life that seems genuine and compelling. With Jarboe, you get ostentatious art that filters her meaning through layers of calculation. It's the difference between spilling your guts and offering a rather oblique "Boo!" (RS 718)

RICHARD C. WALLS