In the tour diary, band manager John Best writes, “Later, the President himself will turn up, but, despite urging from the band, his first lady will refuse to parade across the stage with the brass band at the climax of ‘selest’.”
The story conjures a very different image of the soft-spoken and bashful members of the band, who delivered a notoriously embarrassing interview in October with National Public Radio. In fact, they can be quite playful. The interview footage in Heima manages to capture this on a couple occasions, and a recent piece by English publication The Observer describes Jónsi grinding on a journalist and Kjarri dancing to a Spice Girls tune.
The group’s musical depth is more evident on their most recent album, Takk… (2005), than on prior releases Von (1997), Âgætis Byrjun (1999), and parenthetically titled ( ) (2002). Though ambient, slow, and drifting, the songs on Takk… pack more punch, and reach cacophonous climaxes absent in the earlier recordings. It’s not yet clear whether this is a trend or Takk… simply stands out as their “rock ‘n’ roll” effort; the album they released to accompany Heima is a collection of previously unreleased songs and acoustic versions of some earlier tunes.
“The album was part of the agreement—we had to give [EMI Music] a live album to go with it,” explains Georg. “But the idea of a live album sounded so boring. We decided to record songs we hadn’t recorded before, and then we did the acoustic set.”
The result is surprisingly reminiscent of the film itself, particularly the acoustic sets, which portray the same pared-down feeling that comes from playing in a field with the wind howling by.
Through December 2007, the band was back indoors, touring around the world with the film and playing acoustic sets at screenings and film festivals. “It is very different from our normal live show,” Orri says of the quick, three-song performances that were initially booked as “surprises.” They will then return to Iceland to record their next album. “Maybe it will take six months or maybe two years. It is very hard to say because of the way we work,” Orri says. The members of Sigur Rós aren’t the type to force things.
“The mornings were never common place,” wrote Haldor Laxness, Iceland’s foremost author, in the 1940s. “Each morning was a new morning, but as day advanced, the birds would sing less and the Blue Mountains would gradually lose the beauty of their colors. The days were like grown-up people—the mornings always young.” In this vein of innocence, Sigur Rós’ reverence for the authentic—in music, in performance, in philosophy—appears to be truly Icelandic.