Completed for Professor Kim Chow-Morris' Popular Music and Culture Class at Ryerson University.
Musical criticism has long been viewed as a legitimate lens for cultural study, since changes within musical realms are often influenced by the world at large. For many decades it was about distinguishing the differences between art and folk musics, as these two genres were believed to be the epitome of artistic genius and communal spirit, respectively. Yet “it is now recognized that folksongs, like art songs, have an author [. . .] and are not communally created, though the community has a role in adopting or rejecting songs. It is also recognized that not all songs are ancient, and that folk repertories are constantly changing” (Myers and Wilton, “Folk Music”). This observation draws attention to a trend within popular music wherein musicians are drawing upon older, established musical forms as a means of creating something challenging and innovative. Such is the case with Icelandic band Sigur Rós who, by placing emphasis on national identity through the examination of Icelandic geography, folk lore, and language, is able to create music which is a synthesis of traditional art music and folk music practices, focusing on the exploration of emotional depth.
Typically grouped with folk and popular musics, art music is a predominantly Western musical practice which has been defined as “. . . universal because of its transcendence [. . . and] unparalleled in its complexity, expressivity, originality, and thus meaning” (Von Glahn and Broyles, “Art Music”). This type of music was originally heard almost exclusively in cathedrals due to its aural grandeur and splendour, and throughout the nineteenth century “. . . the notion that certain types of music could be viewed as more than entertainment, as either aesthetically or morally superior to other types of music” (Von Glahn and Broyles, “Art Music”) continued to grow.
The concept of folk music was first introduced by Johann Gottfried Herder and has since been described as a form of “communal composition” (Pegg, “Folk Music”). For centuries folk songs were characterized by unknown authorship, oral transmission, and an association with “country-dwellers”, but over time the musical style began to spread into towns and factories through the increased influences of industrialization and urbanization. The genre is still perceived as one which enshrines the national characteristics of its country of origin, working to create and foster national taste and music which is in tune with the “spirit of the people” (Pegg, “Folk Music”).
American composer Henry Gilbert wrote, “. . . folk songs [. . .] illumine and express [. . .] the very soul of humanity as with a flash of light. [. . .] It is only when the spirit of folk is apprehended, added to, expressed and expanded by the magic power of genius that we get a piece of art-music of real work and significance” (580). Since their formation in the late 1990s, Sigur Rós has been described as belonging to a plethora of genres including post-rock, ambient, and experimental, a fact which renders them members of the “new European composers” who regularly transcend categories while playing upon “. . . the original archetypes for the nation's aspiring art-music culture” (Von Glahn and Boyles, “Art Music”). The band has also become an iconic symbol of Iceland and its musical traditions both within Iceland and globally, and seeing as folk music must be “. . . absorbed into the unwritten living tradition of a community” (Pegg, “Folk Music”), it is clearly evident that Sigur Rós combines key elements of both the art and folk music genres in order to create compositions which are coloured by elements of nationalism and sentimentality.
In 2009, former band member Kjartan Sveinsson remarked that “. . . all [Icelandic musicians] sometimes feel a bit nationalistic. Whether they mean to or not” (qtd. in Dibben 132). This nationalist fervour is not only inherently linked to the heart of folk music, but is also extremely important to Iceland in particular in light of cultural threats of global media and as such its national identity is largely based on land, language, and literature (Dibben 132). The word “Iceland” often prompts images of glaciers, fjords, and snow-capped volcanoes, all of which are powerful expressions of nature, and these types of natural wonders and harsh conditions are believed to help shape the sound and scope of Icelandic musical traditions. Internationally-renowned performer Bjork once described the impact of the Icelandic landscape upon her own practice:
. . . I did spend a lot of a time as a kid in nature. The way I sang would just form itself. [. . .] You could walk and there'd be no wind and you could be all quiet and whispery [. . .] And then you would stand up and run to a hill and sing a chorus. You'd have to do that quite loudly because the weather was strong.
Indeed, many artists often feel indebted to their homeland, and Sigur Rós is no different. The group's 2006 documentary film Heima (“Return Home”) was created following their return from a year-long world tour, and tracked the quartet as they toured through Iceland performing impromptu concerts for both the people and landscapes of their expansive homeland. Perhaps most notable are the segments of the film in which the band is playing for no one but the wind and rolling countrysides, such as during their recital of Heysátan (“The Haystack”). Seated together on abandoned rock ledges and rickety chairs in an old fishing village, bassist Georg Hólm, guitarist Kjartan Sveinsson, and drummer Orri Páll Dýrason are led by vocalist Jón Þór "Jónsi" Birgisson, whose swooping falsetto vocals conducts a stark contrast between silence and sound; guitar, xylophone, and bass guitar are supported by a soft bed of trumpet and trombone tones, which ultimately grow into a crescendo of resounding fullness, creating a thick strata of sound which is ultimately drawn back to a sense of complete peace and calm – a sense echoed by the lush green hills and quiet whispers of wind presented simultaneously within the film.
This concert is only one of many within the film which seem to narrow in upon the heart of Iceland, for “. . . the camera lingers on the sublime banality of the audience and daily life in Iceland, before shifting to static, wide-angled shots of the magnitude of the Icelandic landscape [. . .] The result [. . .] is not only the visual suggestion that Sigur Rós' music is [a] product of Iceland's unique geography, but also that 'land' and 'folk' are connected together through it” (Fletcher, “The Sound of Ruins”). This attention to both national attitudes and mannerisms as well as physicality of the terrain itself aligns the mentality and artistic practice of Sigur Rós with traditional folk music. This alignment is furthered by the group's incorporation of traditional dream lore and mythology, two cultural studies which remain relevant and well-known within contemporary Icelandic society (Lindberg 258).
Gabriel Turville-Petre, a professor of Ancient Icelandic Literature, wrote that “Among no people in Europe is the cult of dreams so deeply rooted. In no literature are dream-symbols more sophisticated, nor their interpretation more subtle and intricate” (93). Seeing as Sigur Rós is a product of Icelandic nationalism and culture, it is fitting that their works may directly reference and explore the nebulous dominion of dreamscapes, such as in a short film inspired by their composition Ekki Mukk. Directed by Nick Abrahams, the film follows a man wandering through a forest accompanied by a snail and a fox. Animals are cited as common dream symbols within Icelandic dream studies and are referred to as fylgja, otherwise known as an attendant spirit or “fetch” (Turville-Petre 99). Just as these animal spirits mutate in order to accompany those who dream of them, Sigur Rós' music and its interpretations often morph over time depending on who is listening and the mindset in which they approach the piece. Many people may experience and explore the music of Sigur Rós in completely different ways due to the sheer depth and complexity of that which is presented musically and conceptually.
An excellent example of the group's ethereal and transportive prowess is Sé Lest (“I See A Train”). Written in a major key, the piece initially sounds uplifting and optimistic as the tinkling chimes and xylophones giggle softly in the background. These two instruments, combined once more with piercing falsettos and the unfamiliar sounds of the Icelandic language, are uncommon in Western popular music practice and thus automatically remove listeners from a familiar acoustic space, much in the same way dreams do. However, as the simple instrumentation continues, a sense of unease begins to build as it almost feels as if something integral is missing from the overall structure and instrumentation of the work; this tension is emphasized by the somewhat discordant vocal harmonies which act as an inquiring, mournful backdrop or articulation of musical thought. As the song climaxes, the instrumentation begins to shift from xylophone-centric to harsher brass accompaniment – a transition which marks the departure from the unfamiliar and return to familiar which mimics the capabilities of dreams and the ways in which individuals respond to them. The attention to conceptual detail and the cultural framing around which this and many other of Sigur Rós' songs are composed is easily related back to the grandeur and worshipful mentality of art music, as they are used to transport listeners to other states of mind and emotions.
Much like dreams, Norse mythology remains an important aspect of Icelandic culture, and with so many tales depicting incidents of suicide, malcontent, and sorrow, it becomes clear that the region's history is built upon emotion and its expression. In the late 1960s, many Nordic countries and their musics were marked by the beginnings of the tradition of singing in their native tongue, but “. . . it is [always] questionable how much language actually mattered” (Lindberg 246). Vocalist Jónsi Birgisson has been credited with the development of what is now known as “Hopelandic”: a combination of English, Icelandic, and nonsensical babble whose true meaning is unbeknownst to everyone but those who wrote it. This lack of concrete understanding results in an emotional connection as “. . . its communicative power [is] located not in the meaning of its utterances but in the emotive power of the sonorous voice” (Fletcher, “The Sound of Ruins”). Thus, by encapsulating superb emotional power within the remnants of the conventional Icelandic tongue, Birgisson's utterances satisfy the definitions of both folk and art music once more.
Gilbert has made the argument that “. . . primitive cries of joy, wails of sorrow, or shouts of triumph [. . . are] the very ancestors of our own folk-songs” (Gilbert 593). If this vein of thought is to be followed, Birgisson's trademark falsetto acts as a means of drawing attention to the heights of both pleasure and pain, drawing listeners across a soundscape littered with sweeping crescendos and reverberating guitars, such as in Svefn-g-enlar (“Sleepwalkers”). This piece, whose title is indicative of Sigur Rós' attention to Icelandic culture, is conducted of orchestration rife with distortion – a feature which is due in part to Birgisson's style of playing an electric guitar with a cello bow. Performed at a larghetto tempo, the piece swells and sighs over a steady four beat rhythm, lulling the listener into a sense of complacency which is complemented by the nature of the title and the sweet, controlled tones of vocal delivery. However, the lyrics juxtapose the calmness of the opening phrases, as they conjure up many different images of passion and physical reactions: “I explode out and the peace is gone/ Bathed in new life / I cry and I cry / Disconnected” (Sigur Rós, Ágætis byrjun). The crescendos and general dynamics of the piece echo the sentiments of the lyrics in such a way that even though it is sung in a language other than English, the gravity of their meaning is immediately evident and rushes at viewers in a sensuous, musical wave.
By expressing themes and emotions through intense instrumentation, finessed vocals, and a globally foreign language, Sigur Rós is able to break down barriers between listeners and express “group” emotions by drawing them together (Gilbert 593). The band's affecting capabilities not only create the community desired by folk music, but also transport listeners from a physical place to one based more on feeling than fact, acting as a vehicle for propulsion into a dream-like state akin to the worshipful nature of art music.
A characteristic of Nordic musical practice has long been the pursuit of the “. . . aesthetic [avant-garde] [. . .] a crossing of the borders between different art forms and media, performers and audiences, high and pop culture” (Lindberg 248). Sigur Rós has become more than just a band as they have explored multiple artistic and cultural practices through the distribution of their music and the experimental creation of accompanying content, most notably in the forms of their album ( ) (2002) and the short film collection known as the Valtari Mystery Film Experiment (2012). These two projects directly initiated conversations between their works and their audience, searching for a sense of reciprocation and contribution that is often missing within a celebrity-obsessed, idol-driven consumer culture.
( ) was the first exploration of participatory dialogue, and was completed as an untitled album which lacked titular direction or any indication of lyrical content (Fletcher, “The Sound of Ruins”). The accompanying CD booklet was comprised of blank pages in which listeners were encouraged to write and record their own impressions or lyrics, becoming a surrogate for the band's original intentions or personal reflections. Comprised of eight tracks, the album is largely a concept album, moving from a mournful, emotional palette to one of anger, fury, and unrest with little room in between. The gradual movement from an adagio tempo to an allegro tempo lends a sense of pursuance; resembling a journey, its pulsing, forceful nature coaxing listeners towards a finish line of sorts which dissolves in a chaotic cacophony of wailing guitar, pounding drums, and moaning bass. The shift in emotional weight draws attention to the palpable nature of passion within music, and by encouraging listeners to record their own thoughts on their experience, the art culture of Sigur Rós' music is opened to the public, fostering a community bred within a folk culture.
This earlier foray into a participatory media culture led to the Valtari Mystery Film Experiment. In May of 2012, the band posted the following statement on their website:
We never meant our music to come with a pre-programmed emotional response. We don't want to tell anyone how to feel and what to take from it. With the films, we literally have no idea what the directors are going to come back with. None of them know what the others are doing, so hopefully it will be interesting. (“the valtari mystery film experiment”)
Each of the fourteen filmmakers involved were given the same budget, and from this collaboration between music and film a broad range of expressive forms and mediums were produced, including dance, animation, and narratives. The experiment was later opened to the public as well, resulting in the production of over one thousand unique exploratory responses to the music of Valtari. Each of the films has a different life force propelling it forward, fuelled not only by the individual creative decisions of the respective directors but by the backdrop of music provided by Sigur Rós – a backdrop painted with a palette of shared experience, memory, and genius which plumbs the depths of human emotions and response as a means of testing what it means to create music on a global scale and for a global audience.
In conclusion, Sigur Rós is a band which is at once relatable and baffling. Through the combination of classic art and folk music principles, they have managed to build a repertoire of music which relies on both national identity and global accessibility in order to be both meaningful and engaging. Their love of their native country is made evident through the vastness of their sound and their film Heima, whose exploration of Icelandic landscapes speaks to the established definition of folk music as music “of the people” and of country-dwellers. By performing in a language which is entirely their own yet rooted in classic Icelandic and English, they not only connect themselves to their folk heritage but also to audiences worldwide, creating a tight-knit community of individuals who are joined through their understanding of something which exists outside their realm of comprehension. This idea relates directly to their exploration of dreamscapes and the awe-inducing tendencies of such visions – a trait inherent to art music, which works to focus listeners on their emotions and those produced by the music they are experiencing. Lastly, their dedication to communal contribution harkens back to the concept of shared authorship which was tremendously apparent in the oral transmission of folk songs and collective worship practices, bringing their musical practice full circle. Thus, in these ways Sigur Rós is constantly “. . . questioning essential Western assumptions regarding music as an inspired autonomous creation and the composer as its genius creator” (Von Glahn and Broyles, “Art Music”), allowing audiences to both contribute to and dictate the course of their future works and impact.
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