Did you take it for granted? I certainly did. In May 2012, Sigur Rós released *Valtari*, a beautifully serene album described by bassist Georg Holm as a slow-motion avalanche. Then, in June 2013, they followed up with *Kveikur*, a darker, more streamlined, and electronically infused take on their unique post-rock sound. Two albums, just 13 months apart, from one of the greatest bands in the world—these were significant, canonical LPs, not the side projects and short-form works that have characterized the past decade. They were exceptional too. Revisiting them now, both records stand strong, if not as life-changing masterpieces like *Ágætis byrjun*, then as extraordinary post-rock spectacles that cemented Sigur Rós’s reputation. We were spoiled. And then, abruptly, we were starved.
It’s not that Sigur Rós have been idle for a decade. Since 2013, fans have been treated to a steady stream of new music: formal experiments, dance soundtracks, live records, a Jónsi solo album, and the occasional single or EP. When they debuted new music at Primavera Sound in 2016, it was part of one of the best festival performances I’ve ever seen. They seemed poised for something significant, but whatever momentum they had built up dissipated, and much of what they’ve released since then has felt like interim material, fillers until they returned to their true form. Perhaps they were waiting for the return of multi-instrumentalist Kjartan Sveinsson, who rejoined the lineup after leaving in 2012. Maybe they had to regroup after drummer Orri Páll Dýrason left the band amid sexual assault allegations. Or they might have been bogged down with administrative issues. Regardless, *ÁTTA*, out Friday, marks the resurgence of Sigur Rós as a vital creative force rather than a legacy act spinning its wheels. Their first proper album in 10 years was purposefully crafted to recapture the splendor of the band at their peak. According to press materials, the band members aimed to evoke a sense of hope amidst widespread malaise, turning their focus inward to find resilience. Jónsi remarked, “We’re getting older and more cynical so I just wanted to move us so that we felt something!” It’s a concept that might sound cheesy, but Sigur Rós has always been about eliciting profound universal emotions, transcending everyday mundanity with grand, fantastical gestures. If anyone can frame their album as a retreat from doomscrolling, it’s these guys.
They aimed to create “really sparse, floaty, and beautiful” music, and they succeeded on all counts. *ÁTTA* sees the Icelandic greats moving beyond post-rock into a more fluid form of neoclassical composition, largely abandoning drums and other rock elements in favor of ethereal orchestral movements. In their early 2000s prime, directors like Cameron Crowe and Wes Anderson made *Ágætis byrjun* and *( )* essential components of movie soundtracks. Yet, Sigur Rós—often described as “cinematic”—has never made an album that sounds more like a film score. This approach might stem from not having a drummer rather than a deliberate choice, but they made it work. Any excerpt from *ÁTTA* could catch you in a moment of vulnerability and devastate you. Opening track “Glóð” feels like an overture calling back to their glory days, with an *Ágætis*-reminiscent string section and a celestial ambiance. “Ylur” similarly echoes the verbal and melodic phrasing of *( )* and its desolation. The graceful “Skel” grows in beauty and intensity, with Jónsi’s falsetto ascending alongside the symphonic music. The closing track “8” finds common ground between Sigur Rós and José González’s crystalline indie-folk before once again sending the stars aswirl. When the gorgeous bluster finally recedes, even the simple chord changes that remain shine with a luster few artists can match. (Coldplay could never.)
But focusing on individual songs misses the point. *ÁTTA* is meant to be experienced as a unified work, emphasized by the fact that my promo copy was one continuous 56-minute file. Given the aesthetic consistency throughout, that makes sense, but it also highlights the album’s main weakness: without a dynamic percussion section, the songs often blur together, and momentum can stall. We’re far from the jubilant energy of 2008’s *Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust*, which invigorated Sigur Rós even as it undercut their supernatural allure. The new approach recaptures that sense of holy pageantry, but the lack of contrast between the songs becomes evident when something like a drumbeat does appear. The pounding pulse in “Klettur” makes a significant difference, as does the brief acoustic moment in “Andrá,” which distinguishes it from the surrounding glittering sameness. Still, that glittering sameness is undeniably beautiful.
*ÁTTA* is easy to appreciate but hard to fully grasp—breathtaking in a way that makes the ordinary feel alien, yet also disembodied, almost holographic, and therefore elusive. Given Jónsi’s longstanding use of his native tongue and the invented language Hopelandic, most listeners already experience Sigur Rós as a purely musical proposition, with the human voice as one more (incredibly powerful) instrument. Scaling back the rhythmic element removes another dimension, and that lack of bombast tempers my enthusiasm for an otherwise incredible hour of music. But after all this time, I’m certainly not about to take such a majestic succession of sounds for granted.