The
Icelandic Revolution:
How Björk
and Sigur Rós spawned the booming post-rock movement
Something supernatural
on the east coast of England birthed the Beatles in the 60s. Fans
in the United States fainted at their mere presence. During the
70s and 80s, the Sex Pistols and the Clash demanded a revolution
and American street kids gave them one. During the 90s, the likes
of Carl Cox and Paul Oakenfold held the torch as electronica swept
across the ocean and over the dance floors of the United States.
Simultaneously, bands like Oasis, Radiohead, Coldplay and the
Muse grabbed a hold of America’s musical landscape and have
yet to let go. This post-rock movement continues to boom as we
blaze into the twenty-first century
And America
has fallen in love again. But this time, not with England.
The post-rock
movement embraced the traditions of instrumentalism and all things
avant-garde throughout the 90s. Hailing from Louisville and Chicago,
acts like Slint, Tortoise and others were met with moderate domestic
success.
Then, having
laid the groundwork, Björk happened.
Marking the
first time a folk singer dabbled in electronica, Björk’s
first studio album, Debut, was met with glowing reviews
in ‘93. Herself already in and out of numerous bands and
projects since the 70s, Björk’s Debut featured
haunting vocal melodies and odd instrumentation that exhibited
a kaleidoscope of influences, — a sort of musical schizophrenia.
But perhaps even more fascinating to the American public than
her innovative music was that she burst onto the scene from the
tiny Nordic island of Iceland.
Thirteen years
later, Björk has sold 15 million records worldwide. Although
her success may have been somewhat predictable, her impact on
the post-rock scene was not. As Björk became a worldwide
household name, American music executives started taking a vested
interest in the sound coming out of Iceland. About this time in
the mid-90s, when the post-rock genre teetered on mainstream acceptance,
four boys known as Sigur Rós signed with Bad Taste records
(owned by the Björk’s band, the Sugarcubes). FatCat
Records in Britain took notice and quickly signed them after their
second release, 99’s Ágætis Byrjun
(An Alright Start). With distribution outside of Iceland, Ágætis
Byrjun was met with rave reviews, fueling a bidding war between
American majors.
Settling on
the Interscope imprint, Geffen records, Sigur Rós’s
ethereal sound became a favorite of both actors and producers
alike. But true to their growing reputation as reclusive and uncooperative
with the media, Sigur Rós set marketing boundaries for
themselves.
“We often
say no,” guitarist/keyboardist Kjartan Sveinsson confessed
in a 2005 interview with Sirkus Magazine. “It’s
a good thing. We get all sorts of movie, TV, and advertising requests.
Some of these offers don’t go very far. Offers like The
Life Aquatic [with Steve Zissou] will reach us, but not Buffy
the Vampire Slayer, for example.”
That they also
want to see the scenes before letting their music being used in
them has created a roadblock for Hollywood.
“Very
few people there want to send out clips from unreleased movies
in case they leak out,” Sveinsson said. “But if people
send us the movie, we will look into it.”
This sort of
control seems to contrast Sigur Rós’s intricate,
free flowing soundscapes. Perhaps the lack of public spotlight
is what keeps the fragile shell of the band together. Tension
between band and public greatly shaped 2002’s ( )
release. Built on simulated sounds of the Icelandic language,
the brackets album remains one of the most beautiful, yet hauntingly
depressing albums of any generation. It even came complete with
blank liner notes urging the casual listener to take down their
own interpretations of the songs.
This blatant
plea for listener-to-band interaction strikes at the heart of
what makes Sigur Rós tick. “We have turned down millions,”
said Sveinsson in The Sunday Times feature. “But for us,
the really important thing is how precious music is to people,
especially when you are younger, when a song might connect to
a special emotion.”
“We are
not saying anything important – there’s no message
in our music at all – and that’s great, because people
can take the songs and attach them to themselves.”
This open-ended
philosophy has transcended pop-culture and spawned a score of
Icelandic bands in its wake. The female quartet Amiina and the
ever-evolving lineup of the electronic tinged music of Múm
have garnered the attention of American record execs. And the
Iceland keeps birthing bands, each as diverse as the last.
Currently, the
Iceland Airwaves Festival is preparing for its 8th anniversary
next October. The annual four-day festival is hosted by the capitol
city, Reykjavik. Once the rural, northernmost capital in the world,
Reykjavik is now a booming metropolis that houses some of the
world’s greatest artists. So, what makes this volcanic island,
smaller than the great state of Kentucky, a thriving mecca for
post-rock and experimental music? What does Iceland have that
the rest of the world doesn’t?
Something slightly
askew is on the musical horizon. Something strikingly unfamiliar,
yet beautiful and all encompassing, with limitless possibilities
and tested staying power. Something as beautiful as the geyser-studded
land itself. The beauty that spews forth from a Sigur Rós
track encompasses the Icelandic ideal of intimate and active participation.
This past year saw a new release and decidedly happier days for
the band. Despite a rocky relationship with the press, their honesty
about new fame that has allowed them and spirit of the Icelandic
scene to live on.
“It’s
like Bardi Jóhansson (of Bang Gang) said in the movie Screaming
Masterpiece,” explained Sveinsson, “In Iceland,
no one gives a shit and that’s why people just do what they
want to do. No one in Iceland will start a band to ‘make
it.’
By Paul
Bickler
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