Sigur Rós
Ágætis Byrjun
[Smekkleysa]
Rating: 9.4
Icelandic lore tells of the Hidden People who live in the crags and lava of jagged mountains.
Descended from the ancient guardian spirit, the Hidden People come in many forms. The tiny
blómaálfar dwell in flower blossoms while the common búaálfar reside on farms. But even in
this modern age of cellphones and helicopters, Icelanders continue to believe that the Hidden
People are still out there somewhere, prancing about in period clothing. Construction workers
will even curve roads around rumored dwellings of the Hidden People. How can a modern people
find faith in such fantasy? A heavy cloud of Norse mythology and a breath-taking raw landscape
explains most of it. Plus, the indigenous music of Sigur Rós can only perpetuate such a
religion.
The album begins submerged. Sonar pings echo from liquid feedback-- invisible in a handful,
but crushing you like an ocean in its volume. Soon a cathedral organ moans. Wire brushes
drum in a sinking pace. A violin bow saws open the maw of massive guitar, spreading noise
in clouds of blood. Siren Jón Thór Birgisson sings through every orifice-- including gills,
perhaps-- creating the most inhuman vocals ever heard in rock (though Skywalker Sound could
attempt a Chewbacca-esque approximation by blending whales, Jeremy Enigk, cherubs, Björk, and
the blue alien from "The Fifth Element"). The song ends in an accelerating heartbeat that
breaks into palpitations. Sound fizzles out. You're dead.
A string section waxes as the album moves from "Svefn-G-Englar" to "Starálfur." The chamber
instruments flutter around skeletal drums and sepulchral bass. This music tethers to
touchstones in classical as much as Radiohead, like Orff composing "Carmina Burana" for e-bow
at absolute zero. The song breaks into brittle acoustic interludes where Birgisson's vocals
frost through your speaker. Yet like Icarus triumphant, the album keeps taking you higher
(or deeper, depending on your perspective).
"Ný Batterí" opens with a disjointed band of muted horns. They deliquesce into chrome swirls
of tinnitus and massaging bass. Eventually, the song erupts in flaking layers of hissing drums.
Subtle bebop drums and Kjarten Sveinsson's fatty rhodes pianos kick up dust on "Hjartað Hamast"
while Birgisson rubs the sleep from his eyes. "Olson Olson" is simply the most soul-crushingly
beautiful piece. This elfin masterpiece unveils Mogwai's troll-rock for its soulless academics.
To term this music "post-rock" would be an insult. Sigur Rós are pre-whatever comes this
century. Piano, flutes, tremolo, horns, feedback, and that godly amazing voice scrubs souls
pure with the black volcanic sands from the beaches of Vík. Birgisson's invented lyrical
language of "Hopelandish" may be crying in tongues or even plain gibberish, but sheer emotions
like this cleanse as universally as sodium laureth sulfate.
Sigur Rós make this bombastic claim on their website: "We are simply gonna change music forever,
and the way people think about music. And don't think we can't do it, we will." The fact that
they've scored hits in Iceland with this spectacular orchestrated soul speaks of both their
power and the credibility of the natives. The alien angel fetus pressed in silver ink on the
cover serves as the perfect logo. Sigur Rós effortlessly make music that is massive, glacial,
and sparse. They are Hidden People. Children will be conceived, wrists will be slashed, scars
will be healed, and tears will be wrenched by this group. They are the first vital band of the
21st Century.
-Brent DiCrescenzo