( ) – Parantheses

Someone once said that listening to Sigur Ros required an acquired taste, then what more can one say about Sigur Ros’ ( ). There is no name, no sound you can make to pronounce ( and ), the closest description would be the word: “Parantheses”

 

I just bought the album today and the entire album (8 songs, 70 minutes long) has already been played thrice now on to its forth time.

How CAN one describe Sigur Ros’ music. Ethereal, otherworldly, god-like, ambitious, orchestraic, magical, embryonic carthasis, derelict happiness all fit under the same tag of sigur ros. Yes, it amazingly does! Each song in ( ) carries no name only the title tracks of Untitled #1, Untitled #2 and so on but these songs have been given names in Sigur Ros concerts that have extensive repertoires that it’s hard now to track the 5 or so albums under Sigur Ros.

The entire album is one that is conceptual fundamentally, what more could one guess from an album with no name. But, even masterpieces of art such as this should be given a name: God’s Elevator Music. Yes, that would be appropriate if you think about how The Almighty is travelling up a lift with Sigur Ros playing in the background…utter-fucking-ly amazing.

Sigur Ros is well known for their godlike sound but also as much for the linguistics and phonics incorporated into their lyrics (if you could call them that). Icelandic being one of the world’s hardest languages to learn, you can’t exactly sing to it thus, Sigur Ros invented a lovelier version of humming called “Hopelandic” which is just random words (if you could call them that) being stringed into a tune.

The album ( ) carries only eleven syllables throughout it’s 70 minute run:

You xylo. You xylo no fi lo. You so.

The syllables are stringed together in too many different forms to begin to interpret and you begin to think about the wonderfully orgasmic tantra sex that the composer must have been having while he wrote it. Every note in there has been wonderfully though out, so scripted that it is not because it blends so perfectly as if Woodstock had toned to a funeral, the masse calling out in pure anguish and ecstasy simultaneously.

go find yourself in the Brueghel landscape, krafla flowing through your veins