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Sigur Rós: Hopelandic Springs Eternal
Icelandic wailers return, as pretentious and indescribable and overwhelming as ever
Christopher Owyoung
Minimalist, they ain't
In that more desirable vein, as a Grand Ballroom capper, we are beaten over the head with "Popplagið," the unofficial title of ( )'s closing number, featuring the mother of all apocalyptic crescendos, the last three minutes or so conjuring up more sound and fury than Radiohead and Metallica combined. Right before the wave crashes, a wayward young lass leaps onstage and makes as if to hug Birgisson; a security guard materializes and very, very politely shoos her away before the messianic singer, hypnotized by his band's own bombast, can even open his eyes to notice. It is the majesty of rock.
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