The first time I heard Agaetis Byrjun was one of the most consequential listening experiences of my life. The bellows of bowed guitar, patient tempos, orchestral flourishes, and Jonsi’s unmistakable voice created a sonic atmosphere that came from a different planet. Yet for all of its sea-changing otherness, it was wholly comforting and inviting. And if you talk to Sigur Ros fans, this is a pretty typical reaction. “Life-changing” is pretty near the top of the list of most common adjectives leveled at the Icelandic icons.

In the twenty-four years since that record, they have varied their formula in several different ways without sounding quite like anyone else. Their tenth studio release, ÁTTA, surprise-released today, offers up the ethereal otherworldly beauty we’ve come to expect from Sigur Ros. But for all of its orchestral grandeur, one has to ask: how many times the same band can change your life?

I make no secret as to my preference for Sigur Ros’s darker, heavier material. The last half of ( ) is among my favorite pieces of music ever. 2013’s industrial-tinged Kveikur is maybe the record I’ve returned to the most in the last ten years. This isn’t to say that I don’t appreciate their more patient ambient moments, but I’ll admit that it did take me a few years to get into the exceptionally amorphous Valtari. And so, ÁTTA is not quite what I was hoping for in the first Sigur Ros record in ten years.

I’m not sure if you could say ÁTTA is less assertive than Valtari, but it gives it a run for its money. The band—now a trio with no drummer—is joined by a 41-piece orchestra. Jonsi’s bowed guitar is nearly indistinguishable from the swells of the string section. Percussion of any kind is rare, rendering the record without much in terms of propulsion. For much of the record, it feels like Jonsi is the only member of the band present, his voice soaring over the orchestra.

One might be tempted to call it boring, but that’s been a criticism leveled against even Sigur Ros’s most immediate records. And even as dismissive as I am of Valtari in the context of their catalog, it’s still an incredibly gorgeous record. Likewise, ÁTTA is certainly not an album that lends itself to casual listening. This is the sort of music that is best experienced in a single uninterrupted chunk, preferably by candlelight or lying flat on your back (unfortunately not my current state). Sigur Ros has always had the term “cinematic” lobbed at them, even before they were being put in every other movie trailer, but the orchestral movements here are especially narrative. The moments that do have a more prominent rhythmic presence (like the marching “Klettur”) leap out like a whale breaching from a calm sea. And even in the slowest moments, the record remains absolutely beautiful.

To tell the truth, any mark you can make against ÁTTA has already been made against even their most celebrated records. Some might say it’s too slow, too pretentious, too cartoonishly angelic, but people have been saying that about Sigur Ros since 1999. The band says that they never actually intended to reunite for an eighth record. Returning keyboardist Kjartan Sveinsson visited Jonsi and began noodling around, then during the pandemic, they returned to these ideas, which proved strong enough to pull against the inertia of their inactivity.

In the end, Sigur Ros ÁTTA is almost defiant. In a media landscape dominated by endless quick-fix dopamine bursts, they drop an hour of patient ambient music, bereft of hooks or TikTok-able excerpts. It’s much the same as what Sigur Ros has always offered, but given how much the world has changed since their golden age, refusing to bend to changing expectations is pretty punk rock in a way.

ÁTTA is out now.

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