Sigur Rós’ relationship with their peers is about as one-sided as it gets: metal bands namedrop them as proof that they can be pretty, pop acts do the same to show an interest beyond verses and choruses. They serve a touchstone for electronic producers interested in apparitional mystery and their music gets placed in movies when directors are looking for a shortcut to beatific beauty. Conversely, with the exception of the Animal Collective-styled “Gobbledigook,” not one Sigur Rós song has suggested a contemporary outside influence. But they'd become trapped by their singularity: By 2008’s gluttonously orchestrated Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust, they appeared stuck in an escalating arms race with their past work and on last year’s Valtari, Sigur Rós didn’t feel like a human entity anymore, just a collection of textural signifiers that confirmed their critics’ view of them as credible New Age.
Valtari sounded like a dead end, and it did turn out to be the end of Sigur Rós as we knew them. After the breakup rumors subsided, the band lost keyboardist Kjartan Sveinsson and signed with a new label. Returning with unexpected speed and unprecedented vitality, Kveikur is the big payback; a bracing record of pummeling post-rock, eerie hauntology and concentrated pop splendor, Sigur Rós finally acknowledge their impact by beating all of their acolytes at their own game.
That Kveikur translates to “candlewick” and phonetically sounds like “quake” is appropriate, as Sigur Rós’ seventh album is their most explosive and action-packed. Perhaps it’s to compensate for the departure of Sveinsson, or maybe bassist Georg Holm and drummer Orri Páll Dýrason are just tired of getting 0% of the credit over the past decade and a half. Either way, Kveikur is defined by its rhythm section, even as it wisely repositions Jónsi's inimitable vocals as the focus, back where they belong after being used as mostly texture on Valtari.
After the ambient bubble bath of Valtari, the deep drum hits within the first minute of “Brennisteinn” disrupt Sigur Rós’ artistic stasis like a cannonball; the heavy metal churn takes on a metaphorical and symbolic aspect, as if signifying Sigur Rós’ transformation from an inanimate object into a vengeful, destructive Decepticon. From there on out, Sigur Rós are fully committed to stress testing their sound. Whenever the distorted bass lunges on the title track, it sounds like it’s trying to drill oil from the ocean floor. The feedback shrieks throughout “Brennisteinn" feel elegant and sleek rather than abrasive, like fine cutlery on black marble instead of nails on a chalkboard. “Hrafntinna” is a metal song in a literal sense, composed of fractured cymbals, sonorous brass, the whinny of horsehair on steel guitar strings; over its six minutes, there’s a filmic, storytelling quality that shows Jónsi could and should be doing soundtrack work for movies with more heft than We Bought A Zoo.
But Sigur Rós always had the frame for heavy metal muscle-- let’s not forget this is a band who makes 10-minute songs with elfin vocals from a guy who wears a fringed jacket and plays his guitar with a cello bow. For all their ethereal beauty, Agaetis Byrjun and ( ) are heavy records. This isn’t Sigur Rós all of a sudden donning Viking helmets and playing out dry-ice fantasies like Robert Plant in The Song Remains the Same-- Think of it along the lines of Boards of Canada’s Tomorrow’s Harvest or Portishead’s Third without the attendant hype-stoking hiatus, reacting to the impossible standards set by their groundbreaking early work (as well as a reputation for being chillout fare), by exposing their gnarled roots and demonic impulses.
For example, what if the distended howl of Agaetis Byrjun was distilled into the percussive clatter of Takk’s “Gong” and concentrated shoegaze swirl of “Með blóðnasir”? It might produce something like “Ísjaki", where Dýrason's drums continuously push Jónsi’s call and response vocals to new ecstatic spaces between disco pleasure and black metal pain. Combine the electronic-pop momentum of Jónsi’s Go with the imperial marches of Með suð of and the result is the “Rafstraumur", a reminder that Sigur Rós can still go goosebump-for-goosebump with M83 and Coldplay if they so choose.
It’s one thing for a complete sonic overhaul to be necessary, but what stands out about Kveikur is how natural it feels. As opposed to a rebranding, this is Sigur Rós internally reconstituted, where the biggest addition isn’t distorted guitars or huge drums or Jónsi going full tilt. More than sounds, this is an integration of new verbs and actions, as Sigur Rós pummel, rage, wail and assert, asking hard questions of themselves. What if they could harness their power to convey immediate anger instead of patient catharsis, as a soundtrack for lifting weights instead of zoning out? Jónsi’s vocals will always bear an extraterrestrial shimmer, but why can’t he play the avenging archangel rather than a friendly ghost? After 15 years of evoking Iceland's gorgeous, volcanic terrain and woodsprite legends, why not reflect the endless winters, cratered economy and the frightening suicide rate?
Even if it doesn’t have the same cultivated mystery or incapacitating demands of Agaetis Byrjun or ( ), Kveikur is every bit a return to form, tapping into its predecessors’ bottomless emotional wellspring for a Sigur Rós album that can be listened to casually or intensely, a collection that works as effectively as a spiritual experience and pop music, the essence of their overwhelming, widescreen grandeur conveyed with the immediacy of a 50-minute rock record.
