Like sucking God's cock. Or something
They play fewer gigs than Jesus throws “coming home” parties, their last record had no song titles and Jónsi Birgisson could walk around with “I’m the singer in Sigur Rós” stencilled on his forehead and still you’d have no idea who he was or what he did for coin. Not only that, but his band make music that sounds like elves rutting in ice castles or dragons bathing in geysers. Meanwhile, they win the award for “band least likely to break into a giggle mid-xylophone solo” with unrivalled ease. Oi! Work experience flunky! File them away in the “anonymous, glacial, misery gut muso” drawer. And shred that Oceansize review while you’re at it.
Except saying such a thing is like hearing biology teachers giving sex education lessons – there is magic woven within the facts. Tagging them so neglects the love, grace and breathless passion that this, the Icelandic quartet’s fourth album, has bolted to the girders of its monumental beauty. Choice cut ‘Svo Hljótt’ sounds like the bit in Lord Of The Rings when Gandalf dies reinterpreted by operatic mythical winged beasts, while the broody ‘Glósóli’ contains more nervous system-shaving shivers than a blowjob from an “up fer it” Archangel. If you imagine the noise God makes just before he eats a slice of cheese on toast, then comparably, that’s how satisfyingly yearning the 65 minutes of ‘Takk…’ sounds. Ordinary people. Extraordinary songs.