Easton Connell

Bridget and I have an envelope on our fridge that has held our tickets to upcoming events for the last several months. It began with seeing the first Harry Potter film with the score provided by a live orchestra in San Jose last Halloween and progressed through a series of various talks and concerts. Last weekend we finally took the last tickets from the envelope and drove down to Berkeley to see Sigur Rós at the Greek Theater.

We arrived at the Greek just in time to walk right up to the stage as the amphitheater slowly filled in around us. Several fog machines puff bursts of intermittent smoke, feebly trying to shroud an outdoor stage in spite of the breeze. The lights above the stage seem to get brighter and I realize that the sun is going down. With the advent of night, the fog starts to linger and the stage is obscured by waves of thick, rolling grey. The synth drones that have been playing low in the background slowly and inexorably crescendo to a heavy and ominous peak. The sun is well and truly down now, and with the onset of darkness a silhouette makes his way to the far side of the stage. The drones are punctuated by heavy concussive bursts from the drums as two more figures emerge from backstage to pick up a guitar and bass. The building storm of the song finally breaks, the drones recede into the background, and delicate guitar arpeggios slowly come to the forefront. The signature tender falsetto of singer Jónsi Birgisson glides over the music, and the evening is elevated into the ether.

The setting is perfect – an outdoor stage on a brisk spring night. The lights and visuals displayed around the band are a fitting garnish to the beauty of their live performance. They provide flourishes and emphases without overwhelming the music itself. A nearly full moon sits high above the trees over my shoulder. The April air is cold and when Sigur Rós begin to play the night somehow seems to get colder, as if they carry the winter with them. I can see Jónsi’s breath steam into the night as he sings.

He plays a guitar that looks as though it’s spent decades outside, abused by the frigid onslaught of many an Icelandic winter. He coaxes the notes from his guitar with a mix of slow strokes of a bow and gentle taps of his fingertips. Jónsi breathes his falsetto vocals into the mic with alternating tenderness and desperation, a binary expression he brings to his guitar playing as well: sometimes lovingly caressing the strings with his bow, sometimes seemingly trying to saw his guitar in half.

After playing for an hour the band disappears into the dark wings of the stage and stage hands set about switching up some of the lighting equipment and screens. Fifteen minutes later a single bright light beckons from behind the projection screen, and the high cold notes and brittle drums of “Óveður” begin. I can barely see the band through the wall of LED lights that has been doubling as both a light source and projection screen. The band seem even more ghostlike through the wall of lights than they did when they were hazy suggestions of silhouettes shrouded in the fog obscuring the stage. “Óveður” comes to a close, and in the wake of its intensity the familiar swell of strings and the delicate piano riff of “Starálfur” rise from behind the screen. I squeeze Bridget’s hand and we smile at each other. I knew they would play this song, as it’s one of their most famous, and the knowing takes nothing away from the beauty of experiencing it live. I look over my shoulder at the nearly full moon cresting the tops of the eucalyptus trees, shining down on this amphitheater brimming with people all sharing in the serenity of this moment.

The piano and high, sweet vocal melody of “Sæglópur” crest over the cheering of the crowd, and as the song climbs to the chorus the LED wall is slowly raised and Sigur Rós return to the center of the stage. The lights explode in a shower of golden stars and an eruption of color that persists through the final run of songs.

The night closes with “Popplagið” from ( ), a rapturous end to a seraphic set. The meditative body of the song slowly builds to a chaotic and triumphant finish, with explosive percussion, relentless bass, and Jónsi ripping sound out of his guitar. Sigur Rós leave the stage awash with the drone of feedback and spastic visuals displayed across the screen and stage. They return to grin and wave to the crowd, and bow far fewer times than I think they deserved. The show is over yet the magic remains unbroken, the spell cast by Sigur Rós still palpable in the cold spring night.