Though the lucre here at Pitchfork is plentiful, and I scarcely have time to get one wrecked Lex towed off before a new one is delivered, any promo CD package that falls through my mail slot is doomed. They will ALL be sold unless they can prove something to me, and quick. I don't need the damn things cluttering my pad. Englabörn, with its pretty little Jon Wozencraft cover, didn't have a prayer. But through a series of accidents, the disc somehow slipped into repeat mode without my realizing it. By the time I'd caught the error, the album had played through twice, looping and breathing to life, its leitmotifs orbiting the room in blissful, indolent circles, completely entrancing me. This first solo album from Jóhann Jóhannsson is absolutely beautiful, and it has only become moreso over the past few months, sustaining me for long periods of time when other music just wouldn't do the trick.

Jóhannsson is a member of the Icelandic artist group Kitchen Motors, and other than that the loose-knit Kitchen Motors collective has, on at least one occasion, held a concert for cellphones at their local Reykjavik mall, additional information is scarce. So I'll tell you what I know: Taking cues he provided to a stage play by Hávar Sigurjónsson, Jóhannsson's Englabörn is composed of music he wrote, as performed by the Eţos String Quartet, with a light gauze of electronic processing applied to it. Although it's difficult to ascertain any obvious tweaking in the end result, there is just a slight haze in the air surrounding the sounds, letting the notes levitate and linger.

It begins innocuously enough with an AppleTalk voice reciting Latin scribe Catullus' poem, "Odi et Amo". An intriguing selection of text, the poem addresses the agonizing extremes between devout love and consuming hate. To have this very human poem delivered by a droid tenor reveals all sorts of counterbalances at work: Gentle, nuanced music that soundtracked a brutally violent piece of theatre, these acoustic, classical string quartets mixing with digital alchemy, and an ancient voice coursing through the latest in Speak 'n' Spell technology. It somehow balances beautifully, graceful in all its gestures.

Some of the pieces, like "Karen býr til Engil" and "Eins og Venjulegt Fólk" recall the similarly melancholy electronic touch that infused the most desolate moments of Radiohead's Kid A. With subtle, digital rumbles, poignant glockenspiel, and scarce violin sustainment, a dreadful space surrounds each note, allowing the music to resonate deep inside of you. "Jói & Karen" is exceptionally restrained, the piano moving like droplets off of slowly melting icicles, the violin breathing warmth from above. The hesitation of each breath and falling bead feels as though it were a Morton Feldman piece condensed to three minutes.

"Sálfrćdingur" is the most propulsive of the set, sounding like classic Moondog, with shaking rattles, percolating drums, and stately piano. Its counterpoint is on track seven, where the theme is recast with bowed strings, the bass solemn in its slow movements. As the violin shivers against it, Jóhannsson reduces it all to scarcely whispered vibrations. This resonates into the music boxes and small squeaked brass of "Bad". "Ég Átti Gráa Aesku" recombines the processional percussion from before with the earlier refrains of piano into a more majestic statement, while "Krókódíll" recapitulates the downward movement of piano notes of the opening theme, this time with the voice replaced by profound organ drones.

By the time of "Odi et Amo - Bis", which slows the original recitation to the point of near stasis, each computer tone and bowed note is stilled to the point of absolute zero, the echoes reverberating off of the ice. A rememberance of things past is conjured up as chilling ghosts float in the ether. The emotional strain is apparent with these haunting last moments, somehow remaining elegant and elegiac in the process.

Just as Catullus balanced the extreme emotional opposites of love and hate into a composite whole the greater of its parts, so does Jóhannsson transform these sixteen miniatures into an exquisite listening experience. With the slightest of movements, and in a handful of descending notes, a shivering gulf of sadness is conveyed. It's easy to mention something grandiose, but to fully expound upon this subtly gestured work of music is far more difficult a task. While Englabörn remains out of reach with these words, the music continues to enrich.

-Andy Beta, March 5th, 2003