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Rating: Iceland has always been the land of my "That's it, I'm leaving and going to..." and of the nights and days I've lived thinking "I wish it would never end." When I search for possible magic, I always find it in this call to my hidden nature, which I have truly explored thanks to "Kurr" (2007).
The absence of movement, of calculable and significant physical dynamics, of perspectives from above that look beyond the horizon visible from the ground, does not suggest escapist music. But rather one of inclusion. It's like being under a single tree, among four horizontal stripes of color. The black of the earth, the white of the snow, the tight yellow of refracted sun rays, and again, the black lid of the night. The georgic dimension, as a natural panorama slapped with brush on canvas, is the most unusual one for a Mediterranean. But it's a good opportunity to experience it. There is a vacancy filled by transitional sounds and the depressurized settings of a terrestrial crust more similar to the lunar one. And it is there that you can realize how the absence of man sounds.
This work that hybrids the dream pop of Sigur Rós with enchanted, fairytale-like, and asleep Icelandic folk motifs, dedicated to children's sleep, is a live moment, an estranged set. The minimalism that reduces the music to a soundtrack for prolonged catalepsy gathers resonant strings (played by the four members of the group) that evoke boreal horizons, a xylophone that calculates the scattered droplets in this limited space, an exhausted synthesizer organ that collaborates from time to time to gradually lower the listener's heart rate. This does not mean that brain activity is interrupted. There is no shortage of stimuli for figuring out a place where, if you get your eyes used to the dark, you can see small genderless bipeds. This is the possible magic. A reaction that lowers the tones of the music and tells of humanity impossible elsewhere.
Because, in Iceland, there are few.
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