Album Review: Sigur Ros - Kveikur

When Sigur Ros stopped by Australia for their most recent tour late last year, they brought a new track over with them. Brimstone was what Jonsi called it , before a tidal wave of compressed reverb and metallic drumming burst out. It was a new side of the iconic Sigur Ros sound, and has ended up as opening track Brennisteinn, the Icelandic version of brimstone, and foreshadows a darker and more earth-toned route on the group's seventh album.

Of course, this is a Sigur Ros record. There's no shortage of unearthly and intriguing experimentations, true to the band's record. What is surprising, and in direct contrast to the band's progression before Kveikur, is just how aggressive it is. Gone are the huge brass and string orchestras, the major-scale build-ups, the happy, shiny gibberish songs. They've been replaced with brooding melancholy, framed by pulsing rhythm and the yearning of Jonsi's majestic voice, which probably hasn't had such emotive power since Takk. The title track itself is a swirling maelstrom of bells, drums, warped synth and driving guitar lines. While things let up slightly towards the end (both Rafstraumur and Bláþráður bring back the known sonic build-ups to critical mass, which at least is a brief break), this is an album of claustrophobic assault, drenched in angst.

But it's not a bad thing. It's a vast departure, sure, but Sigur Ros have tapped into a primal and enchanting energy on Kveikur. Metal and hard rock influences abound, but as usual, Sigur Ros have taken influences and turned out something that is essentially Sigur Ros; the elegance and poignancy is still there, but to the beat of aggression, rather than joy. It will grow on you.