Sigur Ros has always been a band I saw, in my mind’s eye, writing music while surrounded by fairies, dwarves, and all types of magical creatures. It’s the type of epic, atmospheric, music that pushes rock critics to use big, professorial words to describe their records. As layered and rich as Sigur Ros can sound, an element of boredom began creeping into their recent albums. Some of their work was astounding, but some came across like nature channel background music. With the departure of Kjartan Sveinsson, we were left to wonder what the next Sigur Ros album would sound like.
So here we are. The year of our lord 2013, and Sigur Ros lays at our feet their newest offering, Kveikur. Apparently, band entropy was good for Sigur Ros. The breakdown of what they were, has left room for what they’ve become. Don’t get me wrong, Kveikur is still glacial and moody, but it’s also darker, grittier. Sigur Ros seem more focused on what they want, more intent on actually surprising us with their sound. 2012’s Valtari, while a gorgeous record, felt stagnant, it failed to move me the way past Sigur Ros albums have. I was not prepared for the wandering vibe of Kveikur, as if the band decided to be nomadic musically, letting the chips fall where they may.
Dynamics and percussion play a heavy hand in Kveikur. The opening track, “Brennisteinn”, absolutely attacks with drums. Valtari almost completely ousted drummer Orri Páll Dýrason from behind the kit. His return, is filled with the fire of somebody who missed his craft. The attack here is harsh, but never overbearing. As rhythmically assaultive as “Brennisteinn” is, it remains fragile within the vocals and is as dark and brooding as anything else the band has done. “lisjaki”, is a wonderful hybrid of what Sigur Ros have done before, and what they’re doing now. The drums are almost danceable, playing against blips of feedback, horns and sirens. Emitting from the center of that are Jón Þór Birgisson’s vocals, which are all light and breezy saccharinity. ‘Lisjaki” is the song you play when you need to cry, whether out of sadness or jubilation, it works on both levels.
“Stormur”, comes back to the grittier place Sigur Ros is carving out for themselves, as does the title track. “Kveikur” is the harshest, and noisiest, song the album. It’s a Throbbing Gristle album filtered through Sigur Ros. “Kveikur” feels like it’s coming apart, as if the music is breaking itself down, while the vocals shout in desperation. After all the noise, the percussion, the chaotic blips, and mixes of droning feedback, Sigur Ros go out on an completely melancholy, emotional note. “Var” is all pianos and background drone. It’s the calm after the storm, the breaking of a new day after such a fierce, noisy journey. Lush and gorgeous, “Var” plucks the heartstrings, and gives a moment of pause before closing Kveikur out.
Kveikur is a headphones record, which I really appreciate. As we sink deeper and deeper into the digital world, more bands seem to produce albums made to be heard through computer speakers or bass-heavy car stereos. Sigur Ros have crafted an album that requires headphones for the full effect. Lights off, headphones on, if you lay back and just listen to Kveikur all the way through, you pick up so many details, so many nuances lost to standard speakers.
There is some debate on how much input Kjartan Sveinsson had with Kveikur, and his departure might have spelled doom for Sigur Ros. Instead, the band collected themselves, discovered a few untouched musical reservoirs, and put out an album that is easily one of their best, and most surprising, in years.
