To pigeonhole Sigur Rós as an “exotic” act wouldn’t really be “missing the point.” Certainly, the idea of a non-English-speaking band holding the world’s imagination captive does seem “alien.” How did this inherently obscurantist Icelandic band get so, well, affecting? In the first place, I’m not one of those people who easily get tickled by exotica. I don’t care much for the incidentals of art, i.e., an artist’s racial or socio-cultural pedigree, his or her strange accent, the way he uses a cello bow on a guitar.

Whatever.

But I can shed a tear or two while listening to “Staràlfur,” and I can understand why its repeated descending melodies are like daggers to the heart, even though it’s sung in Icelandic, a language that’s as alien to me as platypi. (To those who’ve seen Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, I can also understand how first discovering Sigur Rós presents the same emotional conundrum as finally seeing the “jaguar shark” in the flesh: it’s a feeling of glory, but also a vague sensation of xenophobia.) The intrigue is of course buoyed by their dreampop, and, in their latter work, by the use of a language one can’t even hire a translator to decode: Hopelandic, which is made-up gibberish “invented” by the band. There could be a well-meaning critique in place in their song “Gobbledigook,” but, unless there are people (other than the band) who can tell me what “Þú ert að fjúka langt? í loft/Þú regnhlíf snúa á hvolf alltof oft/Ó nei, ég sé?” means, it remains what it promised to be in its title: gobbledygook.

In any case, I’ve since been hooked on S.R. and their “ways,” that is to say, their language and their other non-negotiables (i.e., a predilection towards the ethereal). Which is why, listening to frontman Jónsi’s solo debut Go sung entirely in—gasp!—English, I feel that a small fraction of the singer’s persona (the fraction that puts emphasis on the fantastic) has somehow died. But, also, I feel that Jónsi’s “language” (the letter married to the note) works as a sort of phantom limb or ghost image, where the fantastic world of Sigur Rós lingers even after its departure. To simplify, it’s as though English becomes a pidgin, a negotiation between Sigur-speak and the language of rational thinking. One other argument one can make is, Jónsi or no Jónsi, strong musical material turns lyrical content into gibberish anyway, where words become a string of phonemes that go well with a chordal theme.

“Boy Lilikoi,” first made available as a free online single, is pretty representative of the album (as a musical product, as a linguistic artifact, and as an idea). Its references to “growling” and “howling,” and its insistence that you “Use your eyes”—all told against a backdrop of a pulsating four-on-the-floor rhythm—point to distraction and escape. The melancholy narratives of S.R. are replaced with a buoyant urgency in Go, which makes you feel as though you’re listening to different versions of the theme music to some nature channel on cable (it is, in a way, the soundtrack to the race against extinction). “Go Do” and “Animal Arithmetic” also exhibit the same musical (and intellectual) resolve.

Nico Muhly’s neo-classical arrangements may be the main culprit behind this feel, but I’m guessing, it’s really Jónsi’s enduring fiction. (Aldus Santos)

“Sigur Rós at Somerset House, London” by clarksworth, via Flickr. Some rights reserved. Cover art for Go taken from Jónsi’s official site, where you can also hear streaming audio of select tracks.