Ágætis Byrjun

In my experience, the best albums ever recorded are usually growers. I've listened to very few five-star records that were love-at-first-listen for me, and in fact as I type this I'm struggling to name even one. Ágætis Byrjun, Sigur Rós's spectacular sophomore album of 1999, came as no exception to this apparent rule, but when it did eventually hit me, it hit me hard. I forget how many full spins this took - maybe four or five - but when it happened, it was down to one very particular couple of minutes buried deep within the record's 72, which gave a secular man the closest thing to a spiritual experience he's ever had.

Sigur Rós are an Icelandic post-rock band, and probably the only one of their kind that could be considered as having hit the mainstream. Many ears will recognise the beautiful "Hoppípolla" (from the 2005 album Takk...) from a reasonable amount of TV shows and films. However, before this taste of fame with the expression of more pop-oriented post-rock, came Ágætis Byrjun (A Good Start), a symphony of soothing, swirling, ethereal bliss made up of velvety blankets of mellifluous guitar feedback and angelic falsetto vocals, solidifying itself as the band's trademark sound after their somewhat more "niche" debut, Von. And although this sound, now practically considered the essence of the band's music, is ubiquitous here, on close listening there is a huge amount of musical variety on display: pop, rock, jazz, blues, folk and orchestral passages.

The album begins with an untitled, ninety-second "Intro" consisting of backmasked vocals and piano - a reversed snippet of the record's title track, heard much later - followed by a weighty but soothing rumble that gives the impression of being completely submerged in water. A simple but suitable statement of intent, setting the scene but not giving away yet what beauty is to come. This then drifts effortlessly into track 2, "Svefn-g-englar"(an Icelandic play on the words "sleeping walking" and "angels"), minimal at first with its simple harmonies and sparse tones, but when the feather-light drums begin to play, we're given our first taste of what makes this album so special. Jónsi, the lead guitarist and singer, begins to play his electric guitar with a cello bow, seemingly hesitantly at first, creating shimmering feedback, but soon erupting into a thick, rich, tuneful wail that could make someone feel warm on the coldest winter evening. Two minutes in and the vocals begin; soft, sensitive falsetto accompanied by textured murmurs in a lower register that float around the soundscape created by the instruments. To say that this then goes on for another seven minutes would, though true, be something of an understatement, as despite its length it follows the structure of many a rock song, only broader, unfolding at a much more relaxed pace.

After some white noise and the sound of a beating heart have taken advantage of the second track's fading away, "Starálfur (Staring Elf)" comes along, somewhat more lively but still pensive and gentle. It is here that a first listener's attention is perhaps most likely to be grabbed, with strings and piano sounding much more like those of a pop album than the instrumentation previously heard. Nonetheless, the sound created is one that one can lie back into, and its build-up and release of tension is subtle enough that the emotion of its louder passages can be eased into and felt without effort. The same can indeed be said of "Flugufrelsarinn (The Fly's Saviour)", which this time treats us to a combination of the ethereality of track 2 and the shuffly influence of blues rock.

"Ný Batterí (New Batteries)" and "Hjartað Hamast (The Heart Pounds)" are the band continuing to develop their new-found sound with a blend of other influences, the former beginning with a soft improvised collection of squeaky brass notes, gathering pace very slowly before giving rise to some relentless rock drumming, and the latter starting with a stomping though subtle bluesy bass riff accompanied by sleazy harmonica licks.

"Viðrar Vel til Loftárása (Good Weather for an Airstrike)", the longest track on the album at 10 minutes and 18 seconds, is the most precious gem to be found here, whose climax touched the soul I don't even believe I have, and continues to do so with every listen. It opens like a ballad, develops like a love song, explodes like the climax of a symphony and dissolves into the chaos of a tragic catharsis. And every second is beautiful. This is the zenith of the pleasure derived from the ethereal tones introduced no later than two minutes into the album. When Jónsi begins to forcefully drag his bow across the guitar, and the drums cease to hold back, and the piano and double string octet begin to sing... I dare you not to cry. For extra emotion, I recommend watching the at-the-time slightly controversial but beautifully shot and award-winning music video.

In the words of pianist and conductor Daniel Barenboim: "through music, even suffering can be pleasurable". But if the shrieking cacophony of strings in the dying seconds of "Viðrar Vel" wasn't to your taste, all is not lost. When all has descended into tragedy and silence, "Olsen Olsen" is like the reassuring arms of resurrection. If you're a believer, it might be the brilliant white light at the end of the tunnel after death. To me, with its folky-sounding brass and wind (a sound the band would take advantage of later on in their poppiest release yet, Með Suð I Eyrum Eið Spilum Endalaust, 2008), it's a pre- (or post-?) apocalyptic celebration of hope and joy, and the perfect refreshment after a ten-minute emotional rollercoaster.

Ágætis Byrjun then gives us even more of a wind-down, and one more taste of the ballad-esque tones of "Starálfur", before "Avalon", a considerably slowed down cut from said third track, plays us out much like the untitled intro played us in. And then silence. And on my fourth or fifth listen, I'm lying there, hair standing on end, wondering how on Earth it took me that long for this music to affect me like it just had.

It's not easy. Much like a vat of honey, as sweet as it tastes, Ágætis Byrjun can prove difficult to swim through. But give it another chance, and maybe a couple more, and it can delight you with some of the most stunning music recorded in the last couple of decades, if not simply a soothing album to relax and unwind to.