Get out your compass, kids. It's time to find the most hip musical hotspot on the map today. The Middle East? Cornershop and Singh-song tablacisms are so late 90's. And let's not tread backwards to the Asian Dub Foundations and Krush, either. All the trainspotters are turning eyes towards a little pile of volcanic residue just near the Arctic Circle. Iceland sits in the middle of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, where the crust of the earth forms from tectonic shifts. It's also in between Europe and the United States, and has absorbed bits of both worlds-- mothers chat in the nearest bohemian coffeehaus, leaving their babies in carriages on the sidewalk while huge American SUVs roll down the narrow streets. Foreigners marvel that vivacious pop icons like Björk rose out of such a stark landscape, at least until they've seen how urbane cities like Reykjavik are.

I feel guilty adding to the hype by even mentioning it, like I'm violating some kind of non-interference Prime Directive. But hopefully, we can avoid corrupting Icelandic culture as a whole while putting to rest compulsions to pounce on the island's every musical offering. Hilmar Örn Hilmarsson has composed a fine soundtrack to Icelandic filmmaker Fridrik Thór Fridriksson's Englar Alheimsins ("Angels of the Universe"). Hilmarsson, who has collaborated with the Psychic TV and Current 93 collectives, offers here a more subdued assortment of 15 instrumentals. Ending with two tracks from Sigur Rós, the original soundtrack makes for a beautiful but not altogether essential album.

Hilmarsson employs a refreshingly small range of instruments, evoking an intimacy unsullied by thick orchestral backing. The album begins with a drone that threatens to rumble right out of your speakers, but then gives way to soft guitar plucking. These chords slowly explore their way through the tracks (each lasting only a minute or two on average), fleeting memoirs colored by bass and violin. The violins hover lightly at times, and then overlap each other in short motifs, expanding upon and eventually returning to the original theme. The first departure comes with the album's fifth track, "Yfirum," as the guitar disappears and the violin becomes the focus. A mix of electronic and live percussion suddenly propels the piece forward. Two tracks later, on "Stigiđ Niđur Til Heljar," the string lines ascend in a sick, trembling pitch, tense and uncomfortable. Later, the sequences alternate between melancholia and uncanny soundscapes punctuated by skittering drum crashes, reminiscent of Paul Schütze's electro-acoustics.

Sigur Rós contribute the last two songs. Of course, if you've got their Ný Batterí EP, you've already heard these tracks, which flow together like one cohesive entity. The inspiration for the first, "Bíum Bíum Bambaló," is an Icelandic lullaby, and the second, "Dánarfregnir og Jarđafarir" is an extrapolation on the music played during national radio obituaries. Typical Sigur Rós fanfare here-- sonorous guitar chords resonate in majestic religious bombast until drums bring the epic conclusion. If you sensed sarcasm just now, you're not mistaken-- once you've pierced their atmosphere, the band's geography really isn't all that unique. It's their achingly gorgeous sonic tone that makes them so special.

Reviewing soundtracks outside of their filmic context is always tricky. I haven't seen Englar Alheimsins, and the liner notes are all in Icelandic (with the exception of two overused quotes from MacBeth). The plot follows a man as he slips further and further into schizophrenic fits that alienate his family and friends. The sequencing makes sense in that regard, as the music glides from sober pastoral to fevered panic. Still, this is soundtrack music, and it probably isn't nearly as exciting detached from the movie. It's an excellent first release, though, for Sigur Rós' new label, Krunk Records. The only trouble is finding a copy outside of Iceland.

-Christopher Dare