Did you know that a third of the Icelandic population believes in elves? I’m starting to agree with them, or at least believe in some kind of otherworldly presence in the Nordic island nation. That’s the only thing that could explain the music of Sigur Rós, the legendary Icelandic post-rock three-piece, who formed in 1994. Well, it’s either elves or talent, hard work, and over 30 years of experience playing live.
All of these elements came together last night for a rousing, celestial performance of the band’s extensive back catalogue at London’s Royal Albert Hall. They opened with newer track Blóðberg, from 2023, which was the first single the band released following the return of multi-instrumentalist (and the band’s main keyboardist) Kjartan Sveinsson. As the band joined the orchestra on stage and the lights dimmed, a cloud of smoke appeared over the stage, illuminated by red light.
The strings of Blóðberg rose and fell like a tide, lulling the audience into what would be two hours of total and utter bliss. But it is Jónsi’s vocals that make the experience so singular and unforgettable. It’s a falsetto unlike any other voice, locked onto your brain like one of those metal whisk-like headscratchers. It’s impossible to believe that he can sound so close to the original recordings until you see him sing live, and even then, it still feels unbelievable.
Next came earlier, ever-reliable tracks Ekki Mukk and Fljótavík, before returning to recency with 8, where the venue’s lights lifted and scanned the audience like a tide, in what was the first standout moment of the night. For most of the performance, the band was lit by their minimalist, colour-changing smoke cloud and a series of small, lantern-like lights dotted around the orchestra. But this perfectly executed lighting change took the crowd’s energy from soothed to goosebumps.
The next highlight was the first half’s penultimate track, Dauðalogn, which may be as close to hearing the afterlife as terrestrial music can possibly get (can’t vouch for extraterrestrial music — yet). Jónsi serenaded the crowd, the orchestra moved like a shoal of fish, and tearducts filled. Then, instead of well-deserved applause, they moved naturally into Varðeldur, the neighbouring track to Dauðalogn on 2012’s Valtari. As the track came to a close, soloist Malakai Bayoh appeared as the song’s perfectly pitched treble. And up came the lights.
Part two opened with two of the band’s older untitled tracks, #1 and #8, also known as Vaka and Samskeyti. The mood was more sombre, funereal, but deeply moving. It’s possible to cry at basically any Sigur Rós track, I believe, but I often find Vaka to be their out-and-out saddest, so seeing it live was deeply cathartic. Next came two more tracks from ÁTTA, Ylur and Skel, followed by 2008’s All Alright, with a rare glimpse of English lyrics amongst the Icelandic. (And the fictional! Part of what makes Sigur Rós so mystical is their use of fairy-like non-linguistic vocalisations, which the band terms “Vonlensk”.)
But it was the closing two tracks which transported the crowd of the Royal Albert Hall to another astral plane. First came Ára Bátur, a track which has a unique connection to London, having been recorded at Abbey Road Studios. As the nine-minute-long piano-led track reached its climax, a school choir appeared almost out of nowhere, the Royal Albert Hall’s organ alighted, and souls were lifted from their seats. Then came the ultimate crowdpleaser, Hoppípolla, which felt like a joyous end to the evening, before the set was brought to a close with a small rendition of Avalon on the organ.
Before this concert, I saw a YouTube comment on Sigur Rós’s performance at the Walt Disney Concert Hall that compared the experience to seeing god. High praise, I know. But as someone whose soul recently left their body and floated to the top of the Royal Albert Hall, I can’t help but think it’s entirely deserved.
