Sigur Rós make their instruments cry — arranged
just so, coming to life, soaring, peaking and
then weeping. It's magnificent and heartbreaking.
They pull you away from life and, at the same time,
manage to make life look more meaningful. With strings, horns, piano and operatic
cries, they show you
the world as you like to see it. (Sorry to cop, but
Radiohead said it best.)
You can't listen to Sigur Rós without slipping away
from reality. Listen to their new album,
Takk... in public; the hustle and bustle of
downtown streets fade into the distance (as if it
were all taking place, mechanized and fake, on some TV
set) and make you wonder what it's all for. 'Cause
right now the real beauty of living is happening
between your ears. And, suddenly, you remember what
it's all for.
Iceland's Sigur Rós piece together breathtaking
orchestrations that sound like they're singing to you
from another world, telling you why your world is not so
bad, that even in all the miserable monotony,
something beautiful perseveres. Their ethereal musical
inventions start small, with gentle coos and keyboard
tinkering, then build and build until they're
cascading high and alive somewhere overhead, inflated
by grandiose instrumentation that could tear you to
pieces and then pick you up and put you back together.
Their hypnotic, emotionally deep compositions rise
and fall like a lump in your throat, rearranging your
perception, making life feel more full and more
fragile.
You can imagine the vocals, at once operatic and
childlike, escaping some distant mountain peak where,
naturally, echoes follow, while the drummer, closer to
the ground, comes down on the kit with such devotion
and strength, you'd think his only purpose in this
world were to play drums. Teary strings enter,
dramatizing the moment, atop repeated bass-line
melodies and subdued electronic effects. Brilliantly
conceived with the precision of a classical composer
and sincerity of a bleeding heart, their intricate
musings intertwine as if enlightening one
another, as if they would be powerless without one
another.
Awash in hazy fuzz and quiet-to-loud production,
Takk..., Sigur Rós' follow-up to 2002's
critically acclaimed ( ), doesn't find them
making any dramatic shifts from the sprawling formula
they first built when they started crafting music
eight years ago amidst the icy, barren landscape of
Reykjavik. But you will find the drums and bass
offering a bit more to hold onto as you wander amongst
their beautiful and brooding soundscapes.
"Glósóli" begins with delicate marching beats and
cascading, alto cries before breaking into a
crunching, stomach-turning wall of noise, while the
intensely touching "Hoppípolla" stirs with climbing
piano keys and mid-range singing that seems to console —
though, unless you speak Icelandic (or the
improvised, made-up language they call "hopelandic"), you'll never know for sure.
The minimalist, quiet-then-loud "Sé Lest" and the peaceful, brooding
"Mílanó," clocking in at 8:40 and 10:25 minutes,
respectively, are the album's two longest and perhaps
most mesmerizing tracks.
Takk... is for feeling — feeling the need to
get away and finding the reason to go back.
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