The track announces itself not with a hook but with atmosphere, building its unsettling mood through layers of sonic texture that recall the desert-rock menace of Queens of the Stone Age filtered through Radiohead's more paranoid moments. This is music that understands the power of restraint, allowing spaces to breathe and silences to speak. Swain has clearly absorbed lessons from his cited influences—The Smashing Pumpkins' dynamic contrasts, UNKLE's cinematic scope—but he's not interested in mere homage. Instead, he's distilled these touchstones into something distinctly his own: a noir-soaked narrative delivered with the confidence of an artist who knows exactly which shadows to inhabit.
The production, helmed by Chris Coulter (whose work with Arcane Roots and Jamie Lenman speaks for itself), strikes a remarkable balance between polish and grit. The mix feels expansive yet claustrophobic, mirroring the psychological tension Swain seeks to evoke. Jack G Wrench's drumming deserves particular mention—his percussive work doesn't merely keep time but actively contributes to the song's mounting unease, each strike and cymbal wash adding to the accumulating dread.
Swain's vocal performance walks a tightrope between intimacy and distance. His delivery suggests someone recounting events from a place of traumatic clarity, the kind of measured calm that comes after surviving something terrible. The layered vocals create an almost chorus-like effect, as if multiple versions of the narrator are speaking simultaneously from different points along the same doomed timeline. It's a technique that enhances the song's exploration of reality versus delusion, one of its central thematic concerns.
The Stephen King influence runs deeper than mere aesthetic borrowing. Like *Misery* itself, the song explores the horrifying ambiguity between care and captivity, devotion and domination. Swain captures that stomach-dropping moment when you realize the person claiming to help you might be your greatest threat—when kindness curdles into control. The lyrics navigate this psychological terrain with admirable subtlety, trusting the listener to understand the implications rather than spelling everything out. This restraint feels refreshing, particularly given music's current tendency toward emotional oversharing.
Recorded across various studios in South England, with the bulk of work completed at The Ranch Production House in Southampton, the single benefits from a recording process that clearly prioritized mood over expediency. You can hear the attention to detail in every echoing guitar line, every carefully placed vocal harmony, every moment of pregnant silence. This is music made by someone who understands that tension requires patience—that fear isn't shouted but whispered.
Swain positions himself as a storyteller first, musician second, describing his work as "short films in sound." This isn't misplaced artistic pretension but an accurate description of his methodology. The track unfolds with narrative logic, building toward revelation rather than chorus. Those seeking immediate gratification or radio-friendly singalongs should look elsewhere. This is music for late-night headphone immersion, for those moments when you're walking home alone and the streetlights seem dimmer than they should be.
"There's Something In The Wind" displays remarkable maturity and vision. Swain has carved out a distinct creative territory—one that prioritizes atmosphere, emotional authenticity, and the kind of patient craftsmanship that's increasingly rare. Whether he can sustain this across an album remains to be seen, but on this evidence alone, we'd be wise to pay attention to whatever storm he summons next.