You’d think that by now, we’d have grown tired of Sigur Rós’ “schtick”. That we’d have grown tired of Jónsi Birgisson’s wailing, weeping falsetto, be it wailing in the band’s imaginary Hopelandic or weeping in Icelandic; tired of the tidal swells of bowed guitar and strings that permeate nearly every track the band puts to tape; tired of the orchestral climaxes that the band bursts out into, nova-like; and tired of the uncanny mixture of pretense and naiveté that the band pulls off so effortlessly.
Be that as it may, the band’s effect still held sway over me as I listened to Hvarf/Heim. I had braced myself, armored myself with a wee bit of cynicism. After all, I’ve heard it all before. And yet, as it turns out, that doesn’t matter. I still found myself with a bit of a catch in my throat, with the hint of a tear in my eye at almost the very moment that Birgisson’s arching falsetto emerged from the band’s ethereal soundscapes. Hvarf/Heim is more of the same from Icelandic’s beloved sons—and that’s not a bad thing.
Hvarf/Heim is the companion recording to the band’s documentary film Heima, and as the name implies, consists of two EPs. The first one, Hvarf, collects rarities from throughout the band’s career, be they songs that have never been properly committed to tape ("Salka", “Hljómalind") or songs from early in the band’s career that have changed so much in the ensuing years as to be virtually brand new ("Von", “Hafsól"). The second EP, Heim, is the more interesting of the two EPs, at least on paper, as it consists of unplugged recordings of some of the band’s most popular material, such as “Starálfur” and “Ágætis Byrjun”.
For my money, though, the most stirring tracks are Hvarf‘s more “traditional” offerings. No matter how many times I hear it, there is still something transcendental about the way in which Birgisson’s voice strains for the stratosphere, surrounded by and propelled higher and higher by crashing drums and soaring strings, as is the case on “Salka”.
“Í Gær” was originally recorded during the sessions that produced “Dánarfregnir Og Jar Afarir” and “Bíum Bíum Bambaló”—the two blistering songs on the Ny Batteri EP (and still two of my favorite Sigur Rós recordings)—and as such, is one of the heavier songs in the band’s catalog, veering off almost into psych-rock territory thanks to the droning organ and pummelling drums.
I have a sneaking suspicion that most folks will be pick up Hvarf/Heim so as to finally have a decent version of “Hafsól” in their possession. The track, which is best known for bassist Georg Holm’s use of the drumstick on his instrument, originally appeared on the band’s debut album Von (as well as their Hoppípolla single). It’s undergone numerous transformations since then, ultimately becoming a fan favorite as the track often used to close out concerts.
“Hafsól” has closed out almost every Sigur Rós show that I’ve seen, and it’s easy to see why the band would use it, and why fans love it so—it’s a rousing, uplifting track that’s as earth-shaking and grandiose as it is playful and joyous. Put simply, if there was ever a song that could sum up Sigur Rós, it would arguably be “Hafsól”.
The unplugged versions on Heim are, as I said before, the more interesting tracks—at least on paper. It’s great to see that the band’s material translates rather well when stripped of the electric elements, be they bowed guitar or the ambient electronics and programming. Both “Starálfur” and “Ágætis Byrjun”—tracks that might seem a little anemic when stripped of their more elaborate trappings—hold up rather well; “Starálfur”, in particular, is rather striking.
However, let’s be honest: Sigur Rós music is beloved, not for its restraint, but most assuredly for its bombast, for the way in which the band seemingly falls over itself in attempts to outdo each previous orchestral moment, each previous angelic outburst. Falls over itself, and yet somehow manages to make music that practically soars, wide-eyed and full of wonder, and yet artsy enough to undo even jaded critics at times.
The acoustic recordings remain largely curiosity pieces. They’re certainly lovely enough, but somewhat staid when compared Hvarf‘s material, which displays the band in their true element and at the height of their powers, writing music that, as familiar and rote as it may be by now, still possesses an extraordinary, even primal ability to transport listeners outside of themselves.