Sigur Rós
Ágætis Byrjun

THE REVIEW

"What? Sven-gi what??"

"Svefn-g-englar, just as I pronounced it to you," Lor15 told me on the phone a few years ago, talking about Sigur Ros [si-ur rose].

An album I downloaded, listened to amidst office noise, and forgot on the hard drive.

Then I bought ( ) and understood: they should be listened to in the dark, in absolute silence. Any noise would ruin the musical idyll.

So I retraced my steps and bought this unpronounceable "Ágætis Byrjun" [OW-guy-tis bi-r-yun].

And, in silence, I listened to it again:
a digital technique film with extremely saturated colors. A land, Iceland, arduously conquered by man, who must adapt to live there (not adapt it), respecting its vital cycles, water, and air. The instruments, varied and orchestrated sublimely, weave the threads of a net that eventually surrounds you without even giving you notice. By the time you realize it, it's already too late and you've been captured.

The voice is also an instrument that pronounces words in an incomprehensible language to us. With Google, I find some translations:

"I'm Here Again
Inside You
It's So Good Staying Here
But I Stay A Short While
I Float Around In Underwater Hibernation
In A Hotel Connected To The Electricity Board And Nourishing
Tyoowoohoo
But The Wait Makes Me Uneasy – I Kick The Fragility Away
And Shout – I Have To Go - Help
Tyoowoohoo
I Explode Out And The Peace Is Gone
Bathed In New Light
I Cry And I Cry - Disconnected
A Ruined Brain Put On Breasts
And Fed By Sleepwalkers"