Album number seven from Iceland’s most applauded and adored export, Sigur Rós, finds the former foursome skimmed down to a trio, but this isn’t the only significant change within the groups infrastructure. Earlier this year, frontman Jónsi suggested that Kveikur would be a more aggressive effort than their previous albums. Although their back catalogue of lush, stargazing melodies has never really been the product of aggression or darkness, this record most certainly seems to be.
Although the post-rock core of Sigur Rós still resides within Kveikur, their focal point and design have changed significantly. The choirs, harmonies and dreamy textures have been taken out and replaced with grittier atmospheres, feedback and heavier percussion. The string work, which has often been a silky, soft and soothing staple of their sound, is also much thinner and considerably more isolated than on previous albums. The tone is much starker and brittle, so much so that the string instruments seem as though they might just snap alongside the feeling of tension.
This darker atmosphere, and the fact that the band members are quite happy to revel in the shadows, produces a sense of dread and gloom that truly alters the dynamic of the band’s established sound. This new approach not only bruises the band’s brooding emotional surface, but sees them cut deeper than before. Especially when the more familiar ethereal aspects of their sound come into play, the darker foreground that engulfs this record makes the band’s ghostly trademarks pierce that much further.
This is, after all, a transitional album, so I never anticipated everything to click at once. There are rough edges and kinks to be ironed out, and, at times, Kveikur feels a little more like quantity over quality. The change in direction and more complex tone duality, though, finds Sigur Rós in the midst of a creative resurgence — one that I’m looking forward to exploring further.
