Anyone expecting Sigur Ros to have abandoned their emotional and majestic approach will think again after hearing the opening bars of their new album, ( ). When Sigur Ros released their second long player Agaetis Byrjun back in 1999, they caught everyone on the hop. Though it was pretty much the first anyone outside of their native Iceland had heard of them, the quartet had been studiously honing their sound for the last five years, developing a spellbinding mix of rock guitars scraped with violin bows, angelic falsetto vocals and dramatic builds of percussion fuelled tension that offered all the ineffable quietude of religious music. ( ) is a slightly rawer, undoubtedly heavier experience than its predecessor, but it still manages to shine a torch into the darkest corner of our souls, describing accurately the aching beauty and the hopeless anguish that makes up the contradictory essence of human existence. Experimental flourishes hark back to their eldritch debut album Von, and Jonsi's vocals-–which have devolved over two albums from Icelandic to his own "Hopelandic" half-language–-finally melt into lyric-less harmonic textures that still float across the band's earthy tapestries as naturally as clouds cross the night sky. Rest assured though that any changes are slight; the melancholy brilliance that made Agaetis Bryjun such a life-changing event is still very much the driving force behind Sigur Ros's music, making this new album every bit as essential as the last. --Paul Sullivan
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