Playing a handful of British dates to support
their latest heart-
stoppingly beautiful oeuvre (that’s album to me and you), ‘Takk…’ Sigur
Rós are a thing of unearthly magnificence. Surely, if there is
a heaven, Sigur Rós would be the in-house band, and ol’ J.C.
would be down the front row, throwing the sandals of approval at them.
Those familiar to with Sigur Rós’ previous albums will already understand the incredible emotional connection the music has with the listener, you can throw a plethora of superlatives at them and you’re still left trying to do them justice. Honestly, the only thing better than listening to their music, is watching them play it. (Note: you still have to listen.)
An odd silence hangs in the Philharmonic until Sigur Rós walk coolly on stage; they splash a few piano notes around the room, and then Jónsi Birgisson approaches the microphone. Out of his undernourished body comes the most heart-wrenching gorgeous collection of noises you could ever wish to hear. Fittingly, Sigur Rós employ veils to project luscious filmic landscapes, complementing the music and allowing the sound to be the centre of attention, rather than the band themselves.
It is impossible to think of a high point to the night (the ominous piano riff to Sæglópur comes close), even so; you come out feeling dizzy and utterly elated, like you’ve been slapped in the face by something wonderful. If this review seems excessively flattering, it isn’t nearly flattering enough. If there is any way you can get to see Sigur Rós live (sell your kidneys / children) I wholeheartedly suggest you do so.