There's a reason these concerts keep moving people to tears

Sydney Morning Herald

20-05-2025

The orchestra shuffles onto the stage and members take their seats. The concertmaster plays an A, and the rest of the group tunes. It's like any other Melbourne Symphony Orchestra recital, until five men walk onto the stage to join them, and the hall erupts in rapturous applause.
The strings swell in the opening passages of Blóðberg, and I can't help it: I'm immediately crying. This is the experience of seeing Sigur Rós live with an orchestra – over the two-plus-year tour, reports of audience members weeping have been common worldwide.
It's not difficult to understand why – the group's sweeping, grandiose music, sung largely in Icelandic and the invented Hopelandic, is elevated in this setting, reaching what feels like an otherworldly plane. It might sound dramatic, but this is the kind of music that feels like it contains all the truths of the world.
The core Sigur Rós trio is expanded with a touring member; the fifth man is British conductor and composer Robert Ames, who rearranged much of the music for this orchestral tour. Ames leads with palpable joy, and the four musicians are positioned in the middle of the orchestra, blending in with their concert blacks. The effect is that they all appear as one unit, rather than the orchestra being an addition. Indeed, in the purely instrumental sections, you'd be forgiven for forgetting this was not simply an orchestral concert.
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Many of these new arrangements are string-heavy, but other details peep through: a muted trumpet in Starálfur adds texture, and a glockenspiel sprinkles a dash of whimsy and magic throughout the evening. Frontman Jónsi's signature bowed guitar, often harsh and discordant, provides a striking contrast to the orchestral beauty around it. Now 50, Jónsi's high, bell-like voice still sounds gorgeous, even when a rasp creeps in – the occasional cracking might make it all even more emotional.
The immersive two-set show focuses on the band's slower, more cinematic tunes, which begin to blend and blur. The spirited kick of Sé Lest, featuring a circus-esque brass section, and the thundering percussion at the climax of Hoppípolla, give much-needed jolts of energy.
It feels like a privilege to see this band's music performed in this setting, and it works so well that it's hard to imagine it was ever any other way. No words are spoken throughout, until the very end: 'Thank you,' Jónsi says. Takk to them, too.