Sigur Rós - Átta

Pitchfork

Read Ian Cohen’s review of the album.

A Closer Listen

A full decade has passed since Sigur Rós‘ last album, making ÁTTA‘s surprise drop on June 16 ~ only a week after the stunning “Blóðberg” video, a rarity in the internet era: a true event.  When we last covered the band, their timbre was morphing.  Kveikur included industrial rhythms and sections of atonalism, a pivot from the nearly percussion-free Valtari, released a year before.  After years of shedding members and shifting sounds, keyboardist Kjartan Sveinsson now returns, joining bassist Georg Hólm and mainstay Jónsi: old friends making new, friendly music.

In one sense, ÁTTA marks a return to an earlier, warmer sound.  It’s clearly a Sigur Rós album, tender and mystical, featuring the familiar, just-beyond-comprehension Hopelandic vocals, a bit of English appearing on “Gold.”  But it’s also incredibly restrained, despite the presence of the 41-piece London Contemporary Orchestra.  For the most part, the strings take the place of the guitars and drums that gave the band its most euphoric crescendos.  Some will miss these elements – The Guardian describes the album as “too much amorphous euphoria” – but they are there, as evident in the acoustic guitar of “Andrá” and steady beat of “Klettur.”  And of course in concert, should they ever wish, the trio can play more guitar and drums over these pieces.  But that might be missing the point.  Those who prefer the dreamy, atmospheric side of Sigur Rós may even find this their favorite Sigur Rós album.

As for the tone, “euphoric” is indeed the right word, although the tone battles with the inspiration, the images and even the lyrics.  Influenced by climate change, the pandemic and the invasion of Ukraine, the band could not help but be in a dour mood.  On the cover, a rainbow is burning.  The chorus of “Gold” goes “You know at the end of the day, we all die anyway.”  Johan Renck’s video for “Blóðberg” carries the thought to the extreme, a long, panning image of an increasing number of dead, naked bodies first lying on, then piled in an unforgiving desert.  The video is three minutes longer than the track, allowing silence to speak before and after the music.  Renck admits he has nihilistic tendencies, yet this is but one possible future.  Jónsi’s description is “heavy but hopeful,” and NPR‘s Tom Huizenga absolutely nails it when he writes, “there are rays of pure golden light in the darkness.”  When one’s invented language is Hopelandic, one can’t help but look for such rays.

In the finale of “8,” the tenth and final track (which may refer to this being the band’s 8th studio album), the choral clouds break before dissipating into kind wisps of sound, less an apocalypse than a peaceful sunset.  Allow the album to scroll around, and the end wraps back around to the beginning ~ just as the band has done by restoring some of its original lineup and returning to its roots.  The album is cyclical, supported by the backward masking of “Glóð.”  What would we do if we could rewind?  If we can’t rewind, can we at least stop making the same mistakes?

The vulnerable emotion of “Blóðberg” may break one’s heart, while the video rakes one’s soul.  The barely-there choir of “Mór” sounds like abraded faith.  Jónsi’s voice rises, but is never loud.  When the world is in cacophony, sometimes the softest voices stand out.  Through quiet and crescendo, ÁTTA comes across as a voice of reason, a salve on a wound, or as Raymond Carver once wrote, “a small, good thing.”  (Richard Allen)

The Guardian 0

(BMG)
With ambient strings and language-less vocals to the fore, the Icelandic art-rockers’ first album in a decade is in danger of washing right over you