Unlike any other band in recent memory, Sigur Ros has successfully left critics and fans simultaneously scratching their heads. Neither, it seems, are capable of finding a fitting description of the Icelandic band and their music.
Certain phrases like “dreamy, ethereal soundscapes” have caught on, but for the most part, Sigur Ros cannot be pinned down. This is not to say they are eclectic by any means, but something wondrously original, and their ability to continuously baffle us, remains their greatest accomplishment.
Like their admirers, Radiohead, the band has built a substantial cult following all over the world. Somehow, a pristine rock cul-de-sac has been discovered by those who’ve strayed from the convenience of the indie street.
What’s now worshipped in rock can now comfortably bare the title of avant-garde and in Sigur Ros’ case, majestic, without getting the cold shoulder from those who still hold, say, Billy Corgan near and dear. So even though Kid A was somewhat lame and Sigur Ros continually tugs at your patience, cheers to two bands that have expanded the grammar of popular music.
Make no mistake, Sigur Ros is difficult. Not to sound scholarly, but comprehending what they’re all about requires careful attention. Every second counts, but thankfully, something so intense didn’t lose its charm in a room as large as the Pageant.
They’ll do well to never graduate to arena or, God-forbid, amphitheater status, as American culture will no doubt provide the opportunity for ( ) or Agaetis Byrjun to become the next Dark Side of the Moon, minus the clocks, of course.
The show was a brooding build-up that led to a final jaw-dropping crescendo. No expense was spared in the production, as evidenced by the film backdrop on a screen of jumbotron proportions, which provided a means for the band to confidently carry on for 90 uninterrupted minutes. They were accompanied by a sturdy, well-disciplined string quartet, Ammina, who provided another reason for goose pimples to emerge.
Frontman Jonsi Birgisson sang in Hopelandic–a dialect he’s invented in his spare time (long days, then, in Iceland), in such high fashion he seems supernatural. Most will never know what he sings, but we do know what we want him to be saying.
That thought is comforting enough because Sigur Ros has miraculously emerged without anyone really knowing a thing about them. Birgisson played his guitar with a violin bow, the strings swelled and sonic touches drifted around steady drum and bass lines as we graduated from our natural pick-it-apart tendencies and settled into what seems like an all-too-pleasant dream.
Perhaps, rather than attempting to come up with quotable phrases to describe what amounts to a virtually indescribable and indivisible musical experience, the band’s name best illustrates the point.
It’s a reference to Birgisson’s kid sister and means “victory rose.” And that, like the music, is a beautiful thing.
