The original, however delinquent in chasing melody or securing finality, hints at future sonic depths: swirling patterns, impressive musicianship and ambitious ideologies. Von (“Hope”), a quietly meditative exposition of burgeoning philosophies, is less iridescent, less aching than later releases, so much that the band, along with friends, reshaped the songs on the impossible-to-acquire Von Brigoi. Sigur Rós ably moves from one luminous mood to another, from one pale dream to another.
Not that the average listener can tell, but the lyrics on ( ), the group’s masterpiece, are in a made-up language he calls “Hopelandic.” The rest of the young band are seasoned experts at ambient soundscapes that contain worlds of demobilized consciousness. The androgynous and lamenting singing oozes out (in Icelandic) simple verbal games, repeated names and places, or partial hopes for transcendence. The application of a cello bow to his already innovative guitar work - atmospheric, effects-burdened and echoic - on the long love songs produces alternate peaks and valleys of opacity and transparency. Much of the band’s spooky beauty is generated by the band’s founder and leader, the glacially cool, one-eyed gay Birgisson, whose otherworldly space vocalese resembles a castrato’s pleading for entrance to Shangri-La. An icy Radiohead without the guitar egos, a Spiritualized without the freely falling dope, Sigur Rós is a cerebral, ecstatic combo that celebrates density of execution and hypnotic airiness. Founded in 1994 by guitarist and vocalist Jón Bór Birgisson, drummer Ágúst (later replaced by Orri Páll Dýrason) and bassist Georg Hólm, Sigur Rós hasn’t so much evolved, up or down, as expanded: the group’s sonic experimentations transmute outwardly. Remarkable for its ethereal musical maturity, the Icelandic chamber rock band Sigur Rós (“Victory Rose”) in three extended albums has re-shaped notions of the potentially synergistic cross currents of trance minimalism and orchestrated pop music.
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