Sigur Rós are a millennial band in the truest sense — not because they are inordinately popular with millennials compared to other demographics, though that might be somewhat true. Rather, Ágætis byrjun literally bridged the millennium. You might have seen Sigur Rós’ international breakthrough topping both “Best Of The 90s” and “Best Of The 00s” lists and justifiably so. The Iceland quintet’s sophomore album was released domestically in June 1999, followed by the UK a year later, no doubt sparked by the most important thing Sigur Rós had going for them at the time — Radiohead were fans. Which was more than enough to convince people like me, in addition to the fact that they were from Iceland. This being 2000, before such a thing became truly cliche, I don’t think I had a single friend who didn’t long to travel to Iceland one day.
On the strength of Thom Yorke’s word of mouth, Ágætis byrjun had landed a four-star review in Rolling Stone and finished No. 2 on Pitchfork’s Best Albums Of 2000 list (behind Kid A, of course) before it was even available in America. I was absolutely dumbfounded to learn that finally came to pass in May 2001. But the extraterrestrial beauty of Ágætis byrjun didn’t sound like the year 2001 so much as any number of the scenes that bookend 2001: A Space Odyssey. Jonsi’s ghostly falsetto and the galactic reverb conjured the dawn of mankind but also, you know, Radiohead. It was the stuff of ancient Scandinavian pagan rituals or a post-human religious ceremony.
About seven months after Ágætis byrjun was made crassly available alongside microwaves in Best Buy, “Svefn-g-Englar,” otherwise known as the “it’s youuuuuuuuu” song, made a crucial appearance in Vanilla Sky, a film whose theme — “what is reality?” — felt particularly resonant around that time. For what it’s worth, the chorus is actually “tjú” in Icelandic, a sound used to comfort babies.
In the time since, Sigur Rós existed in their own orbit, releasing music at an appropriately glacial pace that could never be confused with anyone else. And yet, taking the long view, their artistic trajectory hovers over the greater arc of the 21st century in parallel. Sigur Rós was slightly ahead of the curve when it came to post-rock becoming a preferred syncing choice for prestige TV and car commercials and when indie rock became big and brassy in the mid-2000s, they did, too. And when it started to get all day-glo and pop, there’s Jonsi’s 2009 solo album, Go. But the last two Sigur Rós albums, released in 2013 and 2023, were respectively their angriest and the one most concerned about global warming, proof that even these guys weren’t immune to global enshittification.
This past week, Sigur Rós celebrated the 20th anniversary of Takk…, the closest thing they’ve had to a Good News For People Who Love Bad News or Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots, i.e., the album that came slightly after their consensus artistic peak but delivered their biggest hit, which somehow appeared in trailers for both Children Of Men and Slumdog Millionaire. In fact, they were so sure of its future prospects that Sigur Rós had a nickname for “Hoppípolla” during its writing process — “The Money Song.” So, you were today years old when you learned that Sigur Rós, creators of some of this millenia’s most spellbinding, unabashedly gorgeous and inscrutable music, also have a sense of humor about themselves.
8. Valtari (2012)
Sigur Rós went on their first “indefinite hiatus” in 2009 and it was a productive one for Jonsi — having released his kaleidoscopic, Euro-pop-inspired solo album Go, the self-titled multimedia ambient project from Riceboy Sleeps, and the We Bought A Zoo soundtrack. If Sigur Rós was to return, one might assume that it would have to accommodate Jonsi’s broadened artistic appetite. Or, with Jonsi having gotten all that out of his system, they’d do a “back to basics” album.
Most long-running bands reach this point, even if “basics” means capes, bowed guitars, and “ten-minute songs in a made-up language.” Valtari stripped away the bombastic orchestration of Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust, but also the volcanic dynamics of their earlier work as well, leaving the first Sigur Rós album that validated their perception as Pure Moods. The title translates to “steamroller,” and one reviewer of Valtari pointed out “the music kind of rolls over you.” That’s actually a quote from Jonsi himself (though he added, “in a good way”).
Squint hard enough and there are interesting textures, an intriguing melodic scrap or two, and Jonsi finding new ways to blend into Sigur Rós’ music rather than dominating it. What you won’t find are memorable songs on what amounts to a pretty good ambient album from a band that wouldn’t merit a list like this if that’s all they were capable of doing.
7. Von (1997)
With Ágætis byrjun, Sigur Rós came across like they had been birthed fully-formed from an alien womb. However, this narrative is inconvenienced by their actual debut Von, which betrays their origin as a good ol’ fashioned post-rock band. And by “old fashioned,” I mean “ca. 1997.” The influences are obvious — My Bloody Valentine, of course (who invented “glide guitar” but didn’t think of using a violin bow), Smashing Pumpkins, Spacemen 3, Mogwai. The ambition is there, as it’s actually 16 seconds longer than Ágætis byrjun, but the production is raw and jagged. Jonsi had locked in on a vocal tone, but lacks command and confidence, like he’s still unsure of what to do with such a remarkable instrument. It’s literally the sound of a band learning on the job, recorded over the span of two years with Sigur Rós painting the studio as a form of payment.
A first-ballot entry into the “Album Before The Album” Hall Of Fame,” joining the likes of Broken Social Scene’s Feel Good Lost, The Hotelier’s It Never Goes Out, Deafheaven’s Roads To Judah, and Mobb Deep’s Juvenile Hell — solid debuts so obscure and timid that they end up being just as intriguing than the masterpiece sophomore albums that came two years later. Like, seriously… the same people made that?
6. Átta (2023)
“Climate change, doom-scrolling, and going to hell” — you could probably find Sigur Rós songs suitable for soundtracking these subjects. As far as Sigur Rós songs about such matters, that’s where Átta comes in. It’s the angriest Sigur Rós album and also, the first one that is unmistakably about something.
At least that’s what I gathered from the press release and the video that accompanied lead single “Blóðberg,” ten minutes of drone shots surveying a barren wasteland. The words escape me, but I’m left to assume that Jónsi sees our earth dying a slow, painful death rather than an extinction-level event more suited for the climax of “Ný batterí.” Even compared to Valtari or ( ), Átta is the most forbidding Sigur Rós album, initially delivered as a single 56-minute track before being split up for its official release. It also features the most subtle use of a 41-piece orchestra in rock history and almost no drums whatsoever. It’s an intriguing work that nonetheless feels incomplete strictly as an audio album; It’s not my favorite Sigur Rós album by any stretch, but the one that I’m most interested in seeing performed live.
5. Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust (2008)
“Gobbledigook” wasn’t just the first Sigur Rós song in over a decade that could be accurately compared to another band. The clap-happy lead single of Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust sounded a lot like Animal Collective. Which, by extension, made Sigur Rós sound squarely within “2008 indie rock,” an aesthetic defined by a lysergic, nature kid optimism far removed from even the sunniest parts of Takk... Sigur Rós hasn’t made a song like that since, but it did hint at a more conventional and accessible direction for the band, as that album cover is truth in advertising — in comparison to the spellbinding chill of their past work, was a ray of sunshine on your bare skin.
Over half of the songs are less than five minutes long and “All Alright” isn’t one of them; but it is the first time Sigur Rós has sung in English. They swapped out longtime producer Ken Thomas for Flood, whose recent resume included Smashing Pumpkins, U2, New Order, and The Killers. It was no longer all that far-fetched to imagine a Sigur Rós song alongside those bands on classic rock radio.
And yet, somehow this doesn’t all add up — their sunlit strolls aren’t as compelling as their plunge into the darkness, the brass orchestration occasionally tipped over into garish pomposity, and the sprawling epics could feel like a retreat into old habits rather than a consolidation of new strengths. Also, the first two songs are by far the best things here. It’s an album that still has its pleasures and it always sounds better than I remember when I actually play it, but that might be because Sigur Rós hasn’t revisited this sound at all ever since.
4. Takk… (2005)
Flash back to 2002. In so many words, I would tell you that Sigur Rós had made some of the most awe-inspiring music I’d heard in my life to that point. My actions would probably tell you something different. A statistical account of my listening habits would show that David Gray’s White Ladder or Ours’ Distorted Lullabies were getting far more run. Look, there are a lot of superlative adjectives that you can throw Sigur Rós’ way, but “versatile” wasn’t one of them. To properly engage with Ágætis byrjun or ( ), the laundry needs to be folded, the dishes need to be put away, the homework needs to be done. These aren’t albums you can gingerly spin while a football game is in the background or you’re driving back and forth to the mall.
Takk…, on the other hand, is that kind of album. “Hoppípolla” proved that Sigur Rós’ brand of orchestral movie magic could be aligned with the likes of Arcade Fire and Coldplay, “Sæglópur” and “Gong” proved that they could actually make body-moving and not just head-trip music when they give the drummer some, “Mílanó” and the elfin oom-pah brass of “Sé lest” proved that there was always as much as prog- as post- in their rock. And hey, “Með blóðnasir” just goes to show that Sigur Rós could achieve their cymbal-bashing crescendos in three minutes when you don’t have eight (the title translates to “with a nosebleed”). Again, my words will tell you that Takk… isn’t the best or most accomplished Sigur Rós album. My actions would probably tell you it’s my favorite.
3. Kveikur (2013)
Sigur Rós have always made heavy music, but never metal — which is exactly why metal bands seem to love them. Covering a Sigur Rós song is virtually impossible, though Thursday made an admirable attempt with “Ný batterí,” the closest Ágætis byrjun’s post-rock came to post-hardcore. Still, much of what defined Ágætis byrjun and ( ) are easily transferable to even the most forbidding metal genres, be it the supersized song lengths or the skyscraping reverb or the invocation of elves and orcs through Jonsi’s vocals alone.
Metal took and took and took without giving back, until the shocking turn on Kveikur, which bears almost no resemblance to any other Sigur Rós album, aside from the cover. It typically takes three or four years for a Sigur Rós LP to come to fruition; this one followed Valtari by thirteen months. It’s the first and only time they were affiliated with trendsetter imprint XL, making them temporary labelmates with Arca and King Krule. It’s the first Sigur Rós album where the low end hits you in the gut, the first where the guitars sound like they’re being bowed by a hacksaw, the only one you could classify as “gym music”; though the dizzying electro-pop of “Ísjaki” and “Rafstraumur” are more suited for a super-intense Soulcycle session than deadlifting.
Despite being the most thrilling Sigur Rós album in over a decade, Kveikur got memory-holed almost immediately and I can tell you exactly why. It was released on the same day as Deafheaven’s Sunbather, a paradigm-shifting metal album that would not exist without the influence of Sigur Rós. No good deed goes unpunished!
2. ( ) (2002)
In 2002, I had a job with odd hours and a resultant, terrible case of insomnia. I got prescribed Ambien and, to be honest, I played fast and loose with the recommendations. This was around the time that Sigur Rós released ( ), the follow-up to their international breakthrough — another album that paired well with certain controlled substances or something I’d put on at 2 a.m. hoping to quell my restlessness. But not both at the same time. And so what I’d notice with ( ) is that, by the end of “Untitled 3,” my mind was playing tricks on me. The best way I could describe it was that the music was in 4D for about two minutes before I’d nod off. And so that was how ( ) existed in my life up to that point, an incredible auditory experience that I couldn’t last past 15 or so minutes.
Fast forward 20 years or so and if ( ) hasn’t exceeded its insurmountable predecessor, it provides a compelling, even necessary, mirror image that complicated Sigur Rós’ reputation as friendly ghosts. The crescendos are some of the most concussive in the entire catalog, but the quiet parts (of which there are many) are far more unnerving. Few albums sound more legitimately haunted or haunting, like Sigur Rós laid these songs to tape and then discovered a way to completely erase themselves by removing all attack on these traditional rock instruments, leaving nothing but sustain, decay and release. I’ve had a lot of visions while listening to ( ) and not once have the actual members of Sigur Rós made it into them.
1. Ágætis byrjun (1999)
Magic is a collaborative effort — even the most skilled performer requires a suspension of disbelief from the audience, enough awareness to register what’s happening but not enough knowledge to pick it apart. As I grow older, I long to be in that same cloud of unknowing even when I encounter the most obvious masterpieces of the current day. Would I have been antisocially obsessed with Kid A had I absorbed an entire decade of Aphex Twin and Squarepusher and Autechre? Would I consider Bleed American a masterpiece if I was as astute of an emo historian as I am now? Does Moon Safari sound as otherworldly if I knew who Serge Gainsbourg was? Is it any wonder all of these dropped while I was in college, a time that provides an unlimited amount of emotional and social stimuli upon which to map these irreplaceable musical experiences?
Within this era, I first encountered Ágætis byrjun, an album that felt like an extraterrestrial being crash landing into my life out of nowhere despite emerging on a comet trail of hype that lasted at least a year before it landed on our radar. Until that point, I experienced Ágætis byrjun like many others did in those days — on a burned CD cobbled together from excruciatingly long Napster downloads. I shudder thinking about how Jonsi would feel knowing “Svefn-g-englar” and “Starálfur” were being consumed on 128 kpbs rips. Maybe it’s the greatest testament to Ágætis byrjun saying that it blew my mind anyways. What did it for you? Was it the part of “Starálfur” where everything drops out but the strings? The crash on a bent cymbal they found on a Reykjavík street during “Ný batterí”? I could name a dozen parts of “Svefn-g-englar” alone but talking about Ágætis byrjun in such granular ways cheapens it. This album doesn’t grow on you: it asks for complete submission.
And frankly, who’s got the time for that sort of thing now? Besides that, “it’s breathtakingly gorgeous” is one of the hardest things to take at face value since it’s all superficial; It doesn’t quite have the same impact as sonic innovation or political valence. Sigur Rós sang in an invented language, they played their guitars with bows, all things that a more educated or cynical listener could have heard as gimmicks. At least within my milieu, Ágætis byrjun was unequivocally understood as a generational masterpiece. As my understanding of musical discourse expanded over the next few years, I was able to see the haters who felt more emboldened to speak up.
Over 25 years later, there’s still literally nothing quite like Ágætis byrjun, except for other Sigur Rós albums. It cannot be described with influence, just with the most grand emotion — every instrument weeps, beams, explodes, anything that goes into it will come out feeling exponentially more profound. I do not apologize for how many times I insisted on playing this for my friends when we got high in our college apartment. I figured this would be the music I’d want to listen to when I had my first kid. There is absolutely no way an album could penetrate my defenses like that in 2025. I don’t get high anymore and I don’t have kids, but Ágætis byrjun remains a time machine, transporting me and anyone else back to the first time they heard it.
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