It seems that, six years after Sigur Rós captured our imaginations with their breakthrough second album Ágætis Byrjun (An Alright Start), the band has finally cultivated that much desired, rarely obtained form of notoriety. It’s the type of highly revered appreciation that pushes a band from cult fame or conceptually interesting to being somewhat of an institution. Sigur Rós has become a surprisingly popular band, despite perpetually and determinedly strolling towards the outer limits of musical obscurity, and the members’ unashamed indulgence in their own unique imagined universe. Despite singer Jón Þór Birgisson’s endearing but nonsensical lyrics sung in “Hopelandic”, and history of challenging and severely minimal approaches, Sigur Rós combine such a delectable mix of evocative sounds that, for many listeners, it’s difficult to avoid discovering a soft spot for at least one of them.
It’s difficult to avoid intrigue at the purest of first glances at the new album, Takk (Thanks). The stunning cover art ensures the packaging of these eleven tracks can be seamlessly added to the collection Sigur Rós’s mysterious and always hauntingly beautiful depictions. The first and title track is a slow burning wash of ambient tension, a beautifully slow keyboard leapfrog where overtones rise to a crest and the track is gently laid to rest. Second track Glósóli sees Birgisson’s distinctive vocals make an entrance amid a gentle bass plod and barely there rhythm-keeping. Keyboard notes tinkle like wind chimes throughout the track,and a tense climax absolutely shimmers, drawing power inwards and mercilessly pushing it outwards with brimming energy.
Hoppípolla begins with more of an organic angle, with dual piano sounds prodding from both speakers. The drums are pushed to the front of the mix and lush, silken keyboard sounds fill out the gaps to recreate that archetype Sigur Rós sound. One immediately noticeable factor of this track – and a lot of the new material – is the undeniable accessibility of the music. Most songs contain a solid core you can cling to, and although they haven’t yet crossed over into stereotypically ‘rock’ territory, there appears to be a tighter, more conventionally structured air to Takk.
Se Lzst is immediately engaging, beginning simply with the fractured sound of carefully executed static, before juxtaposing the crystal clarity of glasslike keyboard tones and multi-part vocal harmonies. Perhaps the best example of the warm, orchestral sound of the new approach, Sé lest is passively beautiful and demanding simultaneously. A heartbeat rhythm pounds insistently in the background, nodding back to some of the band’s former preoccupations with birth as inspiration. The track’s eight minutes sees a whirlwind of time changes and subtle movements: one minute the song is a dormant clattering of keyboard, the next it’s off galloping into a maze of drums and orchestration, and then it’s back, resting with the quirky rhythms of an almost brass band.
And now, my personal favourite, Sæglópur. It’s at first a buffed-to-a-shine gentle wash of keyboard piano and canonised, ethereal vocals, but the tension lying beneath the track like a thick frost is soon realised. The sound of the ‘chorus’ is gigantic and wholly enveloping, anchored by Orri Páll Dýrason’s extraordinary tom-pounding and waterfall cymbal crashes. Kjartan Sveinsson’s keys are somehow heartbreaking and hugely empowering, and by far this track’s most outstanding feature. Similarly, Birgisson’s vocals are magical, particularly with this arrangement of awe-inspiring violin backing and complementing synth lines.
Gong arrives on a more sombre note, with the dark tint of violins best suited to a misty moor at sundown. Dýrason’s time-keeping sounds almost mechanical, both in terms of rhythm execution and the metallic tint that highlights each beat. An off-kilter keyboard medley punctuates the track midway, rendering the music unnerving but as enthralling as ever. Birgisson’s vocals rise to all new highs with the help of some heavy sustain, and for perhaps the first time during the album, the guitar sound takes centre stage. Again, Mílanó takes a surprisingly accessible route, sometimes drawing comparisons with the falsetto-and-orchestra-rock sound of Mercury Rev.
Sighing and breathing like a musical sleeping giant, Andvari slows the quickened pulse and sounds faintly like music for the end of a film. The violins are back in force, leading the way for the track’s gentle ebb and flow. Minimalism is again the key concept here, and as always, the band carries it off effortlessly and exceptionally well. Later, the pace is lessened again for, Svo hljótt a soothing and stripped-bare meeting of vocals, keyboards and transparent notes floating in the background. The Sigur Rós knack for building a huge wall of sound brick by brick, and doing so with incredible subtlety, arrives yet again, and with no less powerful results.
Album closer, the interestingly-titled Heysátan (actually Haystack), is another fleeting peek at Sigur Rós sans polish, but a small amount of aural tidying – somewhat disappointingly – soon comes into play. After the flabbergasting power of the previous tracks, this is a noticeably sedate bookend, but quite fittingly so. After a journey like Takk, you certainly need some time to sit back and reflect. And you wonder whether the Sigur Rós, Icelandic for Victory Rose, may have been a hopeful but prophetic choice for a name.
