( )

From AwardAnnals

Reviews

Amazon.com

Are Iceland’s Sigur Rós the saviors of 21st-century rock or true heirs to the silk-robed-and-platform-booted, pompous progressive rock of the ‘70s? On their third album (first for a major label), they are a little bit of both. The group continues to mix the most interesting aspects of U2 (the anthem), Low (the maximalist slow-mo thing), Radiohead (the utter lack of irony in the quest to make meaningful art for stadium crowds), and My Bloody Valentine (guitar as texture), while not sounding like anyone else on this planet. The average song length on the eight untitled tracks is eight minutes, with cascades of moaning, bowed guitars colliding with low-end keyboards while the lovely, alien-registered vocals of singer Jónsi float on top. Dynamics are employed spectacularly, but half of the album is spooky soundtrack music that never really goes anywhere. However, the actual songs on Two Sausages Kissing (or whatever you want to call it)—the third, sixth, eighth, and especially fourth tracks—are mind-blowers, spectacularly worth the price of admission. If they just stopped trying to reinvent the wheel all the time, Sigur Rós could really be a band for the ages. —Mike McGonigal

—

Anyone expecting Sigur Ros to have abandoned their emotional and majestic approach will think again after hearing the opening bars of their new album, ( ). When Sigur Ros released their second long player Agaetis Byrjun back in 1999, they caught everyone on the hop. Though it was pretty much the first anyone outside of their native Iceland had heard of them, the quartet had been studiously honing their sound for the last five years, developing a spellbinding mix of rock guitars scraped with violin bows, angelic falsetto vocals and dramatic builds of percussion fuelled tension that offered all the ineffable quietude of religious music.

( ) is a slightly rawer, undoubtedly heavier experience than its predecessor, but it still manages to shine a torch into the darkest corner of our souls, describing accurately the aching beauty and the hopeless anguish that makes up the contradictory essence of human existence. Experimental flourishes hark back to their eldritch debut album Von, and Jonsi’s vocals-–which have devolved over two albums from Icelandic to his own “Hopelandic” half-language–-finally melt into lyric-less harmonic textures that still float across the band’s earthy tapestries as naturally as clouds cross the night sky. Rest assured though that any changes are slight; the melancholy brilliance that made Agaetis Bryjun such a life-changing event is still very much the driving force behind Sigur Ros’s music, making this new album every bit as essential as the last. —Paul Sullivan