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20th anniversary edition of Takk… on 3 x 12” vinyl for the first time. Features the album, remastered by Ted Jensen at Sterling Sound plus rarities and b-sides. Tracklisting includes the b-sides from the 2006 Sæglópur EP release, available on vinyl for the first time, plus two previously unreleased tracks, Melrakki and Elfur. These tracks were originally written and recorded in the sessions that lead up to the recording of the Tack… album, but are now available officially for the first time.  — (via Label)
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A strange thing happens before the two-minute mark in "Saeglopur." All the twinkling and cooing erupts, at what might seem like eight minutes earlier than normal, into a cathartic blast of tautly constructed group noise -- or, as those who prefer songs and motion over moods and atmospheres might say, "The good part comes." "Saeglopur" is emblematic of Sigur Rós' fourth album, released nearly three years (!) after ( ). Nothing resembles a drone, and no part of it could be described as funereal. Even so, Takk... is still very much a Sigur Rós album, due in large part to the ever-present otherworldly vocals, but also because the only real changes are the activeness of some arrangements - arrangements that deploy a familiar combination of bass, drums, piano, vocals, lots of strings, and some horns - and some of the colors that are used. 

Despite opening with what sounds like a happy walk through a snow bank, the album is just as suited for a sunlit spring morning as ( ) was suited for a winter trudge across a foggy moor, so in that sense, it isn't a repeat and is more tactile than illusory, but it's not likely to win over anyone who suddenly felt an index finger push against the back of his throat while hearing "Svefn-G-Englar" for the first time. And it's not as if the band is suddenly writing three-minute pop songs, either. Half of the album's tracks are longer than six minutes, with extended cresting, sudden bursts of action, and a couple particularly fragile moments that seem to be on the brink of melting away. One thing to consider when wondering whether or not this band has changed in any way: they've gone from providing the background music to death announcements to "Sé Lest," a fluttering children's lullaby that is briefly crashed by an even more gleeful oom-pah-pah brass band. — (via AllMusic)

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When Sigur Rós’ second full-length record, Agetis Byrjun, landed stateside in 2001, its extraterrestrial oozing was so unfamiliar (and, subsequently, unnerving) to American ears that it managed to finagle a staggering number of meticulously rendered comparisons to glaciers and fjords and icebergs: By year-end, it seemed oddly plausible to presume that Sigur Rós’ songs were actually being mouthed by giant mounds of snow. Something about Agetis Byrjun—its celestial groping, its shimmers, its weird vastness—seemed handcuffed to the landscape from which it was born. Thus, the mythology of Iceland—of staggering literacy and longevity, of Björk, of Reykjavík, of volcanoes and fisheries and giant slabs of ice—became the mythology of Sigur Rós. Unsurprisingly, domestic intrigue peaked almost immediately: The record’s liner notes and cover—a silver alien-baby hybrid boasting angel wings-- revealed precious little about its creation, and vocalist Jónsi Birgisson openly admitted to howling in an entirely self-fabricated language. In 2001, Sigur Rós were deliciously strange, the only sensible soundtrack to post-millennial comedowns, all future and faith, bones and blood and ice and sun, culled gently from an island far, far away.

In the years that followed, Sigur Rós released three EPs, reissued their debut, and popped out another full-length, the ever-contentious, unspeakable ( ). With each new record, the band dutifully maintained their trademark swells, bowing consistently before the altar of ebb and flow, until Sigur Rós began to sound less like an icecap melting and more like Sigur Rós. The mystery melted, the fascination faltered, and the animated, barstool retellings of the Sigur Rós Story died down. Still, Sigur Rós are more than just a conversation piece, meatier than their reputation, better than the otherworldly blubbers they're so casually accused of: With Takk..., the songcraft that once made Agetis Byrjun everyone's favorite sunrise record re-emerges intact. Melodies stick, songs coalesce, and Sigur Rós lay off the grim theatrics, reminding listeners everywhere that they intend to play theaters, not funeral homes.

Ultimately, Takk... is a warmer, more orchestral take on the band’s defining sound, and easily their most instantly accessible record to date. (Shockingly, over a third of the album’s songs clock in at under five minutes each.) The cheerless drones of ( ) are replaced by more bass, drums, piano, horns, and samples, strings are more prominent than ever before, and Birgisson’s lyrics are especially incidental, all barely-audible squeals and sighs. Mostly, Takk... is ecstatic, constantly erupting in funny little waves of joy. Dissenters who rejected Sigur Rós as the soundtrack to wrist-slittings everywhere might be temporarily perplexed by the band’s new, wide-eyed giggles—but mostly, Takk... just sounds like Sunday morning Sigur Rós, all yawns and sleepy grins and quick yanks at the curtains.

“Glósóli” is the record’s shining center, a rapturous, tinkling swirl, with Birgisson’s high, squeaky howls (sounding perfectly thin and kitten-y) shooting through a thick, stomping mess of chimes and echoing guitar. The song builds slowly, finally bursting in a deafening explosion of heavily distorted guitar slams (think, oddly, of Coldplay—particularly the end of A Rush of Blood to the Head’s “Politik”). “Glósóli” manages to be both ethereal and concrete at the same time, which is Sigur Rós most effective trick: “Glósóli” tempers its fRóst with curls of hot human breath, a tongue on an icicle, frozen and warm all at once. “Gong” is all antsy drums and careering guitar, while the steamy “Sæglópur” tiptoes from piano and tinny glockenspiel to a breathtaking vocal harmony, and, finally, an ominous swell of full-band noise, just deep enough to inspire some vicious head-nods, if not full-hip dancing. Elsewhere, the band falters. “Se Lest” and “Milanó,” the record’s longest cuts, are both vaguely hollow—“Sé lest” is too preoccupied with its own atmospherics, while “Milanó” meanders without meaning.

Takk... proves that Sigur Rós can, in fact, transcend their own legend: The tendency to descend into new age goo is still present, and Takk..., like all of Sigur Rós’ discography, is not for the viscerally-minded. Regardless, the record is more than just meaningless wisps. Crank it in the late summer heat and see if it melts. — (via Pitchfork)

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Label: Krúnk 
Format: 3 x Vinyl, LP, Album, Reissue, Remastered, 20th Anniversary
Reissued: 2025 / Original: 2005
Genre: Rock
Style: Post Rock

File under: Rock // Shoegaze/Post Rock
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