Sigur Rós

Item: Ágætis Byrjun
Author: David Martin

Ágætis Byrjun

(1999)

Reviewed by David Martin

Discogs Bandcamp Apple Music TIDAL Amazon Music Spotify YouTube Music

Label FatCat RecordsThe Rebel Base2003

ambient art rock dream pop post-rock

Stop the presses! I've officially gone off the deep end. Again.

Okay, not really. But this latest adventure in listening sometimes makes me feel that way. I should have known, after stumbling upon a few descriptive reviews of the music of Sigur Rós a month or so ago, that my curiosity wouldn't leave me alone until I managed to hear some of the band's material for myself. Since they hail from Iceland and create a brand of post-modern, post-progressive, post-nuclear, post-everything rock music (and calling it "rock" is a stretch), it's easy to feel like you're drowning in a frigid ocean when taking in one of their albums. It's an odd feeling - at once alarming and comforting.

Now, if you're like me and you've already read a lot of press on this band, you're probably rolling your eyes, expecting another load of hyperbolic hogwash to spew from this writer's keyboard. And you're probably right - Sigur Rós (which means "Victory Rose", by the way) has this annoying habit of inspiring pretentious reviews that try to prove the band either guilty or innocent on that same charge of being "pretentious". I guess I'm gonna have to avoid playing the pretension card altogether, since I've seen the word thrown at pretty much any band these days that tries to write something non-radio-friendly. And seeing as bands only have two choices these days - to be radio-friendly or to be radio-unfriendly - bands are kind of forced into one mold or the other.

Unless, of course, you come from a culture that's pretty much isolated from the trends that are popular on American radio. Then you're just radio-ignorant. Sigur Rós would qualify in that category. Judging from the fact that they sing in a mishmash of Icelandic and their very own made-up language (which they call Hopelandish), that their "songs" tend to surpass the five-minute mark and sometimes even the ten-minute mark, often with lengthy interludes of white noise in between, that they sometimes play their guitars with violin bows instead of their fingers or picks, and that they are capable of creating creepier soundscapes than Radiohead at times (they're actually credited with influencing Radiohead), I'd say it's a pretty safe bet they're not gonna have any smash singles over here any time soon.

The band's 1999 release, Ágætis Byrjun, is probably their most well-known album, and therefore a good place to start for ignoramuses like me. It's a formidable studio work, featuring ten tracks that run about seventy minutes or so combined. The sound is rough in places and very polished in others, with a small string orchestra, horns, a vocal chorus, and waves of random studio noise intervening at unexpected moments. Despite all of this, there's still a very melodic and soothing undercurrent to the music, as difficult as it may be to take in at first. The album has that "grow-on" appeal that I've almost been seeking out lately due to my general dissatisfaction with the claim that just about every rock record released this year will change my life. I don't want a record to change my life. I'd like to think my life is more exciting than that. But I don't mind having some unusual and memorable music to serve as the soundtrack for that changing life.

Ack, there I go getting all pretentious again. It's inevitable. I'm describing music that the band's most hardcore fans would insist can't be described, and that their detractors see as mostly confusing and either headache- or coma-inducing. Let's face it, Sigur Rós either enjoys the fact that they send critics scrambling for something meaningful to say, or they're perturbed by the very fact that we're even trying to analyze their music to begin with. It would probably be considered some form of sacrilege for me to go traipsing through their album in my usual track-by-track fashion, pointing out all of the peaks and valleys and so forth and trying to discern meaning where there may not even be any - but there ain't much else I can do, unless I want to just quit now. If you'd rather not have some of the musical surprises ruined for you, but you think you're adventurous enough to go give Ágætis Byrjun a listen, then by all means, stop reading and go pick it up. It's a worthwhile investment. (Or at least go to their unofficial website and download some samples.) If you're not convinced yet, then by all means, forge ahead through the snow and ice with me...

"Intro"

The album begins in a fashion that will probably be comfortable for fans of Radiohead and other psychedelic acts - some backwards tape loops and odd vocal chanting. I know it's in another language, but I can't help but make out the words "North and south" in there somewhere. This soon falls away into a low-end rumbling, as if you're looking out onto a barren seafloor from inside of a lifeless submarine.

"Svefn-G-Englar"

That submarine analogy is probably one many will come up with, because this song, likely the band's most easily recognizable due to its inclusion on the Vanilla Sky soundtrack, starts off with a few sonar "ping"s, before an ominously warm-sounding organ creeps in. What begins as a drearily slow song (as most of the tracks on this album do) soon develops into a chillingly majestic score - perhaps an aural ode to the band's native Iceland. It's certainly freaky when you're first exposed to the one-two punch of lead singer Jonsi's voice and the bellowing noise of his bow being drawn across the electric guitar strings. But it's all still very melodic, in its own twisted way. Running at nine minutes plus, the basic chord structure of this song can get repetitive after a while, but there's a definite charm to Jonsi's high-pitched wail in between what appears to be each verse - "Itchooo-ee-oooooo... Itchooo-ee-oooooo..." The song changes up a bit with heavier drums and guitars in the middle, but for the most part, remains locked in the sleepy groove that it starts and ends with.

"Starálfur"

Anyone who doubts that Sigur Rós can make truly beautiful music need only download this track. The strings that fade in and the rich, bell-like keyboards are some of the most orgasmically sweet ear candy I've ever heard. Jonsi's voice does sound rather odd on this track, though it's nothing that fans of Thom Yorke will find bothersome. Once you get used to it, this song just envelops you, giving you a false sense of security regarding what's to come. The dynamic isn't 100% sugary-sweet throughout - all of it suddenly falls away a few times for a quiet break with nothing other than a very dry-sounding guitar strum and Jonsi struggling to spit a few words out, but the first time this happens and everything falls silent, the song comes crashing back in with what sounds like fireworks in the background. If they celebrated the 4th of July in Iceland, this would certainly be perfect music to accompany it - it's calm and romantic, and yet almost overbearingly thick.

"Flugufrelsarinn"

After the rather awkward ending of "Starálfur", more white noise fills the space leading up to this track. This one's a little darker and there aren't any immediately noticeable bells and whistles to make it stand out like the last two tracks do - it's mostly driven by organs and more bowed guitar playing. It's still got a nice, gentle, almost jazzy groove to it. Of course, I have no clue what Jonsi's singing about, but whatever it is, he sounds very emphatic and even operatic about it at times. The backing vocals are very rich on the chorus; I wonder if it's just him recorded many times over, or if all the guys pitched in?

"Ný Batterí"

Here's where the band's moodier side starts to break out. After the last mouthful of a song degenerates into silence, a few horns can be heard blurting out random notes, and there's also a weird squealing noise, almost as if someone had recorded a tea kettle shooting off and played it back at a different frequency. It reminds me of steam vents, or perhaps even the tension of a volcano about to blow, and it's fitting, because we're being set up for an aural explosion here. As the horns congeal into some sense of a consistent melody, a cool, dark bass groove gets the actual song underway (for you impatient listeners, that takes a good two minutes), and Jonsi begins to sing in a very mournful tone about... well, I won't tell you what. I've looked up the lyrics to this one and they kind of disturb me. But for all I know, it's a fan's translation of the garbled language, which is why I'm mostly avoiding discussing lyrics on this project. As the melody slowly starts to sink in, you can tell something good's coming, and before you know it, the drums break in with a foreboding "thump-thump-crash-crash" pattern, making really good use of the cymbals. It's refreshing to hear loud, live drums on a record that mostly relegates them to softly keeping time in the background, while using other unconventional means to produce noise. I'll be honest, part of why I like this track so much is for the more conventional "rock-out" attitude it displays as it builds momentum. Just when you think the onslaught is about to die away, the band comes crashing back in, Jonsi's voice wailing away and horns spitting out notes as if the players were being held at gunpoint. You know how all those horns freak out and die at the end of Radiohead's "The National Anthem"? This song is holding the survivors hostage. It's almost cruel that at eight minutes, the song slows down again and opts for a more conventional fade out.

"Hjartað Hamast"

This is definitely one of Sigur Rós' more bizarre songs, and believe me, that's saying a lot. At first, the odd organ-and-harmonica intro makes you wonder if this is going to be a warped bastardization of country and jazz as filtered through an Arctic climate, but don't worry, it's actually stranger than that. Jonsi's voice starts out sounding incredibly weary as he fights to keep up with the funky organ riff, so whatever he's singing about, it must be an emotionally exhausting topic. That's nothing too weird for the band, but where things get truly odd is during the choruses, which dwarf the verses in a flurry of sound that completely obscures the other instruments, leaving just strings and a very strong vocal melody. This continues a few times, cutting through the band's otherwise icy musical landscape like lava from an erupting volcano, until finally the intruding noise gets so intense that it wipes everything out, hitting a peak volume and breaking up before finally settling down - you can just barely hear the last notes of the song fading out underneath. Kinda scary at first, but ultimately a breathtaking piece.

"Viðrar Vel Til Loftárása"

This might be the one place on the album where the epic track lengths get excessive. This slow-burner of a song runs at just over ten minutes, which isn't such a big deal once it gets going, but it takes a good two minutes or so just to develop into something discernable, opting to start off with little but background noise and a very faint piano. It's the same thing that bugs me on some U2 albums - I don't mind quiet, contemplative intros that build up to a big explosion of sound, but I'd like to not have to strain just to hear what's going on (i.e. I shouldn't have to adjust the volume knob up and back down again). Anyway, once the piano is brought to the foreground, it plunks out a lovely melody that I swear reminds me of an old pop song from the 70's or 80's or something... (you know, that one that goes, "I've had the time of my life"...) Anyway, aside from that, it's a fairly riveting piece once the strings and the bowed guitar playing take over (something like a symphony being played from inside a whale's belly), and towards the end, it really begins to remind me of Radiohead's "How to Disappear Completely" as the strings get more warped and off-key, until they finally just fall apart altogether, as if the conductor suddenly collapsed.

"Olsen Olsen"

A gentle bass groove in 3/4 time gets this song underway - it's one of the few in the album that maintains its rhythm throughout and doesn't rely on sparse, atmospheric sections to string it all together. That could be a good or bad thing, depending on why you were drawn to this album in the first place. Personally, I love it. It's the only track (as far as I know) sung entirely in Hopelandish, and the vocals here are mostly restricted to Jonsi's distant cooing in the background. The piece soon evolves into what seems to be a Viking Rock Opera, with cascading pianos, strings, and a wordless chorus of voices that rises up out of nowhere. They just sound so reverent and celebrative, and you just have to wonder what the heck they're so darn joyful about in the midst of all the glacial sadness. (I couldn't hazard a guess as to the subject matter here - maybe they're singing about the Olsen twins?) Eventually, this all fades out into faint crowd noise, and then a piccolo can be heard repeating the song's main theme, fading off into the distance.

"Ágætis Byrjun"

This trance-inducing song seems to be a mellower cousin to "Svefn-G-Englar", driven mostly by gentle finger-picking on an electric guitar (and I swear I can hear fingers squeaking across the strings on this one!). The drums revert back to a simpler style, though they resonate in a rather jittery manner. The picture I get when listening to this somewhat repetitive track (like large sections of many Sigur Rós songs, it relies mostly on a two-chord groove) is that of a fetus floating around in the womb, waiting to be delivered. Perhaps that's due to the alien baby pictured on the album's cover and the fact that this is the title track (reinforced by the English translation, "A Pretty Good Beginning"). The lullabye-ish keyboards once again remind me of another Radiohead comparison - Kid A. It's frightening to think that if Sigur Rós were much more popular at the time of Kid A's release, less discerning fans would have labeled that album an English-language rip-off of these guys.

"Avalon"

The album's closing track, which is entirely instrumental, is mostly a series of warped but gentle sound effects and somber keyboard chords that for some reason make me expect Enya to start singing. Since I'm pretty sure that "Avalon" is an allegorical reference to Heaven, this song makes me think of a Viking ghost ship slowly sailing off into an Arctic horizon - but wait, the Vikings had Valhalla, not Avalon. Oh, well. In any case, it's a decent farewell piece for the album, and it doesn't overstay its welcome at only four minutes or so, but the ending is a bit anticlimactic given what I know these guys are capable of. The melody pretty much fades off into a series of metallic bending sounds, as if our proud Viking ship were sinking and being crushed by the pressure of the frigid waters, rather than sailing away peacefully. Very strange.

Well, there you go, I've made my best attempt to do what shouldn't have been done, and describe Ágætis Byrjun's sonic textures and various icy moods. More than anything else, I hope I've convinced you that you just have to hear it for yourself to get even a slight handle on what these young lads have created here. It's not a perfect work of art, nor is it ideal for any old mood or occasion (driving is right out!), but like the albums that find the most longevity in my collection, it brings new rewards with each listen.

Believe it or not, the band followed this formidable work up in October 2002 with an album entitled ( ). And that one's even more indescribable than this one is - I suppose I'll have to get to it eventually. But for now, Ágætis Byrjun is, well, a pretty good place to start.

David's Score: 4/5