Able to reach wuthering heights with his majestic leggiero tenor, Jon Thor Birgisson, better known as Jonsi from established Icelandic band, Sigur Ros, is capable of leaving captivated admirers in a ravished hallucinatory state. Applying crooning whispers, frantic shrieks, siren shrills, and arpeggiated trembles to predominantly symphonic material, his stentorian voice soars beyond the galaxy.
Left to his own devices, the eloquent tenor’s temporarily moved away from the safe confines of his long-time Sigur Ros colleagues to hook up with intimate co-producing companion, Alex Somers, distinguished neo-Classical pianist-arranger, Nico Muhly, and perspicuously precocious percussionist, Samuli Kosminen. With stunning entrée, Go, these impulsive collaborators elevate Jonsi’s sterling reputation for revealing radiant tranquility apropos to the alien snowbound vistas encompassing his native northerly European country island.
In the beginning, Sigur Ros’ formative ’97 debut,
Von, showed promise. But international success came awhile later with ‘01s superb
Ageulis, where Jonsi’s angelic choirboy brooding and feverish mantra-like mysticism fronted gauzy interstellar dreamscapes of uncommon Epicurean splendor. Moving from mysterious slow-burn séances and ominously starker weepers to meditatively uplifting ethereality, its gloriously anesthetized serenity gave birth to some of the most impassioned post-millennium labyrinths.
Jonsi’s quavering sentimentality only got better with ‘02s caliginous follow-up,
( ), rendering strung-out lonesomeness above prettier melodies, deliberately slower-paced ballads, and expanded spectral illuminations. Increasing the alluringly theatrical ambient melancholia while descending into a nebulously glacial pace, ‘05s poignantly detailed concerto,
Takk, found Sigur Ros delivering their most plaintively fragile elegies yet.
By Sigur Ros’ fifth studio album, ‘08s broader
Med Sud I Eyrum Vid Spilum Endalaust, Jonsi’s rapturous baroque jubilance overrides the cavernous funereal melodramatics in more conventional bass-pulsing beat-driven settings. Its whimsical opener, "Gobbledigook," is an acoustic guitar-spangled quick one that slips out of archetypal straight-faced string-laced classical piano mode. Staying carefree, fanciful childlike xylophone lullaby, "Inni Mer Syngur Vit Laysi Ngur," exceedingly verifies the joyful pomp. After crossing into heavenly transcendental psychedelia on elliptical requiem, "Godan Dag Inn," triumphant brass-armored goosestep, "Vid Spilum Endalaust," reconfirms the fervid foursome’s previously unearthed fulsome frolic.
Before taking a break so Jonsi’s partners could start families, Sigus Ros had received commercial, movie, and TV show endorsements, an unanticipated event considering the bands’ non-conformist operatic approach and remote homeland. But Jonsi stayed busy. His low-key instrumental project with Somers (‘09s
Riceboy Sleeps) and a couple of Jonsi-Somers photograph books surfaced. Eventually convinced to sing in English instead of Icelandic (or his own made-up gibberish, Hopelandic), Jonsi’s compellingly emotional alto tenor blossomed further via 2010’s crystalline pop abstraction,
Go.
On
Go’s somniferous tom-stomped penny-whistled overture, "Go Do," a full-on rhythm appropriates the yin and yang soft-loud profundity that saddles the less elegantly effervescent Sigur Ros-induced anecdotal strains befitting lilting orchestral retrenchment, "Tornado." Lithesome new waved rave, "Animal Arithmetic," and gleaming bushy-tailed enticement, "Boy Lilikoi," counter-actively magnify the calming resonance and perfect stillness of falsetto-bound shudder, "Sinking Friendships," buzz-swirled noir veer "Kolnidur," stirring climactic peak, "Grow Till Tall," and flickering closer, "Hengilas."
An impressive step forward, Jonsi’s ventured into the future without forgetting his past. While Somers and Nico Muhly (a Philip Glass protégé) bring celeste and glockenspiel to the table, Samuli Kosminen’s kalimba adds a newfound exotic eccentricity to the Reykjavik native’s solipsistic solitaire sprees and wondrous wailing wanderings. Yet the clarinet, oboe, bassoon, and trombone that backup Jonsi’s side troupe would easily fit inside Sigur Ros’ oeuvre.
Anyway, it’s all part of Jonsi’s revelatory ‘acousmatic’ music.
Who were some early influences? Did your parents enjoy music?
JONSI: My first musical memory was playing the Beatles "Twist & Shout" on the fast speed of my parents’ stereo. Of course, I grew up with heavy metal like AC/DC and Metallica. When I got older, through my parents record club, I started listening to Deep Purple, Black Sabbath, and Uriah Heep.
It’s ironic you claim metal as a primordial inspiration since your own narcotic opuses are often in direct opposition to those loud guitar-based jams. Your own music is nearly operatic.
(laughter) Yeah. I think you grab stuff from music you like. From metal, you draw on energy and power. But also, you want to draw from beautiful melodies too.
Do you find this solo endeavor, Go, to be a true extension of Sigur Ros’ dramatically intense concertos? If not, what are some differences?
I write a lot of music by myself. So I wanted to do this now while Sigur Ros had a break since all the members had babies. I decided the timing was perfect. The main difference is working with different artists and musicians – something I’d never done before. Nico Muhly, and American composer, arranged the brass and strings and played piano. That was exciting for me. We worked fast and spontaneously. I like to work fast. Also, the drummer, Samuli Kosminen, didn’t have much time. But he went to the studio and hadn’t heard the songs before and just started improvising until you come into some cool stuff. It kept things exciting.
You also hooked up with busy Connecticut-based producer, Peter Katis. He’s worked with many indie pop-rock bands. How’d he affect Go? Did he make it more approachable?
He’s a great engineer, talented at documenting sounds put in front of him. It sounds good and I’m happy how he recorded it. He brought real good ideas to the table. He knew how to produce songs. It was fun to work with him.
Has Iceland’s isolation away from the rest of the world helped you create such tremendously forlorn rural vistas?
Probably. I’ve never lived anywhere else. I live in the big city, Reykjavik, which has only 180,000 people. It’s tiny compares to, say, New York. I think you have a lot of space to work in and nothing to block your view. It was great to grow up there. But I think it’d be really fun to live in New York City and make music there.
The third Sigur Ros album, ( ), depicted strung-out loneliness and slower paced ballads that seem to counter the uplifting charm of Go.
Definitely. That’s a fair description. During the ‘brackets’ LP, we were living through this phase in our lives. We had to record these songs we’d been playing for many years and we were kind of tired of them in a way. It was hard to record that album. Also, we had done some talking to record labels. That wears you down. We weren’t in the best headspace. This album is completely different. It’s colorful, playful, and energetic in a different way. The main thing was working outside the band. I had worked with the same group for sixteen years. So it was liberating. It was a healthy experience. I had never written English lyrics before so that was a challenge. My English vocabulary isn’t that big.
The darkest song on Go may be "Kolnidur, where dusky piano and a lush near-falsetto lamentation contrast soothing strings.
Kolnidur means pitch black in Icelandic. It is dark lyrically. Wolves are howling and something’s lurking around in the background. It’s mainly about the fears you have in the pit of your stomach.
Lead track, "Go Do," reminded me of heralded ‘80s new wave artists Yaz, Alison Moyet, and Erasure.
I have no clue who the first two are. But Erasure was an amazing band. "Go Do" is a four-on-the-floor beat-driven pop song. Our drummer, Samuli, is so talented. He turned up in the studio with a suitcase full of shit, like tin cans and trashy drums. He even played on his suitcase.
The most popular cut, "Boy Lilikoi," features gorgeous crescendos. What’s that song about?
Lilikoi means passion fruit. I got inspired by a trip Alex and I made to Hawaii to work on instrumental project,
Riceboy Sleeps. It was the nature and the trees. In Iceland, nothing grows. You have to control the forest and the plants.
Your alto tenor on "Around Us" recalled Jon Anderson of prog-rock legends, Yes. Are you familiar with them?
I haven’t listened to Yes. I’ve heard of King Crimson, but not Yes. They sound interesting.
I’ve noticed there is a loose theme emerging on each Sigur Ros album. Did the solo album attempt to have a core concept?
In Sigur Ros, we thought a lot about the flow. But it’s usually not that thematic. But the more you think about it, the closer we came to having a small theme from the group of songs we used.
Have you ever considered doing opera?
No. I kind of hate opera. In my mind, Classical opera seems a little silly, formal, and stiff. But a few years back when I was touring I used to collect these recordings of opera and really liked these old recordings probably because of the recording quality. One of my favorites is a singer, Alesandro Morrisette. He’s a castrato. You know, a guy who sounds like his balls were cut off. I was really into him. It’s an amazing 1904 recording.
Fertile Scottish combo, Mogwai, became a provocative ‘post-rock’ beacon in the mid-‘90s, extending upon the profound reverb-heavy shoegazing Jesus & Mary Chain and My Bloody Valentine devised and the proverbial noise rock experimentalism Sonic Youth pillaged. Fronted by proficient guitarist Stuart Braithwaite, these artful punks established themselves as one of the most investigative post-grunge acts, marveling the coolest indie scenesters with frighteningly awesome distended live jams (captured best at Music Hall of Williamsburg for sensational 2010 Secret Moves disc).
Nearly the antithesis to fellow Glaswegian trendsetters, Belle & Sebastian, whose eloquently picturesque pop whimsy counters their frostily frenetic fretwork, Mogwai’s finest art rock explorations tend to be drifting instrumental exploits weaving lovely arpeggiated chords, fuzzy scree crackles, spiny feedback shards, and distended obbligatos inside various symmetric textural shapes.
"We’re actually friends with Belle & Sebastian. We played the same scene, did some shows together. We’ve both survived and lasted for over a decade. I think we’re the last ones standing," a jovial Braithwaite informs me as we stroll down memory lane.
In fact, he’s right. While the whole rock landscape blew up and slowly changed coarse, leaving a gathering of overlooked, underdeveloped, and sidestepped bands in its wake, the two Stuart’s (Braithwaite and Murdoch) continued gaining firmer access to an extended international audience, half of whom might’ve been babies when Mogwai took hold.
In the beginning, teenaged schoolyard pals, Braithwaite and bassist Dominic Aitchison, hooked up with drummer Martin Bulloch, then subsequently, keyboard programming 6-stringer, John Cummings. Despite their deliciously devilish Cantonese Chinese moniker, Mogwai lean closer to celestial beauty these days, migrating a bit from the fiery ‘evil-spirited’ irascibility of yore, at least by current indications.
Gallant ’97 debut, Young Team, pitted subtle transcendent poignancy against distorted pedal affects, turbulent riffs, and discordant clamor underscored (strangely enough) by the same dangling conversations, incoherent mumbles, and distant murmurs still inoculating Mogwai’s extemporaneously tailored abstractions. Abstruse instrumental highlight, "Like Herod," a cathartic creepy crawler, builds ample tension prior to its jarringly explosive release, setting the general course of action for the rest of this powerful early landmark (at least before it dissolves into an eerily cocoon-like catacomb). The crunchiest cacophonous clamor, reminiscent of grunge igniters Nirvana, Green River, and the Melvins, vanquish the intriguingly majestic soft-toned complexities with a brutal assault.
A perfectly rhapsodic rainy day relic, ‘99s Come On Die Young went just as easily from elliptical to bombastic. Piano-playing flautist Barry Burns, came onboard, adding an extra dimension that’d permanently solidify Mogwai. Soon after, a few EP’s and remixes flooded the market, followed by ‘01s even better Rock Action, where the blissful atmospheric tranquility (mindful of contemporary slo-core designers Slint, Codeine, and Low) yields tremendously fruitful results. Abrasive anthemic eruptions provide maniacal gale force winds rising above the leisurely balladic restraint.
"Slint was absolutely inspirational," a humbled Braithwaite offers. "My earliest musical enlightenment came from Velvet Underground, Jimi Hendrix, Sonic Youth, The Cure, and My Bloody Valentine. I always had a big interest in rock music."
As Mogwai’s live reputation grew, so did their stimulating repertoire. ’03s epic masterwork, Happy Songs For Happy People, cajoled sweeping symphonic melancholia out of ambient pieces that shunned the pasts metal-edged hardcore derivations, sounding remarkably like pioneering generative artisan, Eno, in retrospect.
"I think musically we just try different things. It’s nothing really drastic, just organic changes. We tried a lot of different instrumentation over time. So we’ve definitely developed since our first album," Braithwaite says. "But it’s hard to pin down. We try to change up just about everything."
Though ‘06s extravagantly detailed Mr. Beast and its exclusively instrumental successor, ‘08s The Hawk Is Howling, didn’t luxuriously expand Mogwai’s sonic template, both received critical respect. The former featured "Auto Rock" (used as incidental music in Miami Vice film), an ethereal piano brooder that blossoms into a fully blown onslaught. The latter contained frenzied pile-driving scrum, "Batcat," and the appallingly christened, "I’m Jim Morrison, I’m Dead," an ominous slow-burner reaching crushingly skull-splitting metallic crescendos.
Having accumulated an extensive catalogue to fall back on, this enduring troupe continues to grow, rising to the occasion once more on their seventh studio set. A monumental re-entry, Hardcore Will Never Die, But You Will, absolutely exceeded expectations.
"The Hawk Is Howling was a more sparse, heavy record, whereas Hardcore is probably more upbeat and optimistic. But I definitely like both records," Braithwaite asserts.
Dramatic commencing overture, "White Noise," may seem akin to Lou Reed’s disquietingly shrill Metal Machine Music via its title, but the deliberately-paced neo-Classical framework, bell-like jangle, and melodic piano create an interstellar effervescence even Braithwaite’s zooming guitar cannot crash through. The galactic traversing stays afloat on "Mexican Grand Prix," a neo-psychedelic organ-droned illumination that wouldn’t seem out of place on an early Yo La Tengo album.
Braithwaite contends, "That’s definitely inspired by (‘70s-related krautrock band) Neu. There are bands from Germany we’ve liked for a long time, so those sounds we’ve kept in our minds. There’s a sweeter organ sound."
As for the weirdly titled songs, he believes sometimes the band’s plain lazy and just name each track after how it may sound. But mostly, they keep each member "vaguely amused." Designating the closing vignette, "You’re Lionel Richie," was easy enough.
"Some songs are named after things that happen. Like one time, I saw Lionel Ritchie at the airport. I was hungover and I said, ‘You’re Lionel Ritchie.’ The guys remembered that years later," he shares.
Sometimes the epithets are completely random, such as "San Pedro," an upbeat straight-ahead rampage that has nothing to do with the coastal California city. And why should swooped orchestral lullaby, "Death Ray," with its glistening Cathedral organ, be labeled thusly?
"That’s a nice number. I’m not really good at talking about the songs, to be honest. It’s fun to play live," Mogwai’s main man quips.
If there’s one kindred band, it may be cinematic Texas phantoms, Explosions In The Sky. Both bands put on monumental shows and enjoy crafting beautiful guitar-etched tunes that touch the sky.
When asked if there’s a correlation, Braithwaite concludes, "Yeah. They’re friends of ours. Good guys. They probably like the same bands as us. That wouldn’t surprise me. When we go out to play concerts, it takes awhile for us to get up to speed. But once we get our shit together and hit stride, watch out."
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One of America’s newest musical sensations has been a humble East Coast quintet that grew out of an absurdist art project at a snootily unappreciative upscale college. It may’ve taken them a few months to catch on with the masses, but MGMT incredibly made the jump from interesting indie pop apprentices (with an addictive techno edge) to universal dance-pop champions (raised on a diet of Rhythm & Blues, prog-rock, new wave, disco, and, for good measure, ‘60s psychedelia). Theirs is a mind-bending admix of savory musical ingredients caught in a perpetual quest for the golden chord.
And so it was. MGMT managed to slowly climb to the top and receive a Grammy nomination with the tantalizing Oracular Spectacular, a righteously titled entrée perfectly in tune with current trends, at least on the vogue surface, but also halfway aspiring for hip cred amongst astute underground pundit. Either way, it was inarguably a mighty first step.
Invigorated by Malibu surf riding and related ‘60s surf culture, MGMT’s next project, Congratulations, doubled the ambition and tripled the compositional complexity. Simply put, it was a riskier pursuit built upon the final far-reaching ideas scattered across Oracular Spectacular’s most daring, least perused, fare.
Born in Columbia, Missouri, before moving to Arlington, Virginia, then Pittsburgh (for an eight-year stint), MGMT co-founder Andrew Van Wyngarden settled in the soulful confines of Memphis, Tennesssee, before attending Connecticut’s haughty Wesleyan University, where he met fellow gifted artisan, Ben Goldwasser. The two would concoct various keyboard-programmed laptop tracks before coming of age.
Growing up alongside New York’s Lake Champlain in nearby Wesport, Ben plays the nerdy bespectacled brainiac to Andrew’s pretty-boy rock star profile. Together, the adaptive duo, now living in Brooklyn, would soon become reluctant synth-pop kingpins, buttressing their buoyantly brightened neoteric psychedelic whimsy with a few likeminded pals that’d determinedly help fill out the increasingly imaginative arrangements at hand.
MGMT became a full-fledged band when Andrew brought guitarist Hank Sullivant onboard. Hank had performed in various bands while they were both living in Memphis as youths. When he left to form Kuroma, Hank’s pal, Warwick, New York-based drummer, James Richardson, moved over to guitar. Meanwhile, stick-handler Will Berman, who went to Wesleyan with Ben and Andrew and played in a few local Connecticut combos (one which opened for indie rock faves, Of Montreal), joined the crew. Will then got bassist Matthew Asti to enter the fold.
Rounding up prodigal Flaming Lips/ Mercury Rev producer Dave Fridmann to advance their surrealistic enlightenment for impressive ’08 debut, Oracular Spectacular, MGMT initially caught fire when the ethereal flute-fluttered percussion-thudded dance-floor sparkler, "Electric Feel," gained magnificent mainstream, club, and rock approval. That opened the floodgates for two more completely accessible and undeniably charming cuts written and recorded prior to the albums’ release.
Firstly, spiffy ‘live fast/ die young’ anthem "Time To Pretend," a sweepingly swaggering symphonic slam poking fun of self-destructive celebrity lifestyles, placed flatulent phase-shifting keyboard blurbs atop allusive techno-imbibed machinations with ample success. Better still, vivaciously dippy sing-along enchantment, "Kids," lovingly imitated Eno’s bold avant-Industrial inventions (especially those consuming David Bowie’s monumental ’77 album, Low).
A recent co-headlining Bamboozle set, May ’10, became a cheery celebration captivating an anxiously awaiting crowd at dusk (prior to Weezer’s proficient pro-pop pap). Utilizing swirling light schemes, oscillating keyboard swells, glossy guitar grooves, seismic beats, and galactic jaunts to get across their most popular songs, MGMT proved to be one of America’s latest and greatest modern rock finds. Everyone sang along to the pleadingly ascending ‘take only what you need’ chorus of "Kids." A truly fuckin’ amazing life affirming moment!
Cagey producer Peter Kember (a.ka. Sonic Boom) of former psych-futurists, Spaceman 3, and active garage-prog plodders, Spectrum, provides the proper rococo, echo-drenched atmospherics to experimental sophomore endeavor, Congratulations. Heady lead track, "It’s Working," takes mystical adventurers on an enigmatic journey back in time to the Summer Of Love with its radiant Epicurean flights of fancy - reaching several euphoric climaxes. Crossbreeding Arthur Lee’s Love and Ted Nugent’s Amboy Dukes with Pink Floyd’s Saucerful Of Secrets in an elliptical fashion, the opium-laced magnum opus extensively re-creates the valiant prog-rock scurry of the happily abstruse "4th Dimensional Transition" (from the debut).
Recorded in a Brooklyn apartment, the equally ebullient hook-filled ode to exploratory art-pop brainiac, "Brian Eno," goes bonkers as a sharp-witted ditty ready to please bubblegum pop admirers as well as fussy avant-rock aficionados. Another wonderful, though less known, British artist, gets glorified on carnival organ-doused "Song For Dan Treacy," an espionage-like whirlwind lauding the Television Personalities guiding light with early REM-styled 6-string jangling.
Reminiscent of early Flaming Lips, grandiose three-part opus, "Siberian Breaks," galvanizes into a mammoth Arctic surf-riding symphony one step beyond the kaleidoscopic multi-harmonized illuminations igniting "Flash Delirium" (influenced by the Beach Boys Big Sur number, "All I Wanna Do"). Finally, the serenely salutary title track, an entrancing balladic dirge engaging synthesized Eastern mysticism, facetiously sums up the overall contentedness the band found gaining unexpectedly expeditious fame.
Just as Radiohead’s colossal 2000 masterpiece, Kid A, expanded and compounded the bands’ electro-rock abstractions, these clever musical designers have transcended the inceptive investigations bracing Oracular Spectacular by risking it all creating a fascinatingly perplexing follow-up, the recondite Congratulations. Enriching the lavish exuberance of their earliest recordings with curiously elaborate twists and turns, MGMT slyly disguise the juicy melodic intrigue drawing in the incipient pop crowd while handily elevating each broadened arrangement in a meritoriously uncalculated manner that requires careful listening.
MGMT may be overreaching at this point in time, but by overstepping their boundaries a bit, these altruistic spirits have proven to have an uncompromising commitment to the betterment of imminent mimickers. Let’s face it: instant fame leads to immediate imitation. Though MGMT may’ve lost a couple nascent "Kids" fans in the process of getting headier, they’ve undoubtedly gained the respect of more diligent audiophiles. And that may seem ideal for a band whose future directions are still uncertain to them.
I got to speak to MGMT in person @ High Times Magazine in June. Happily, I spent 3-plus hours with MGMT, acquiring enough cool info for two completely separate articles. Here’s a snippet of conversation for Aquarian Weekly.
Both of your albums lead off with sarcastic tracks snubbing drug-fueled celebrities. Why?
BEN: It’s nice to see the sad human side. We love pop culture. I was raised on it. Maybe we mock out media culture because it’s more productive than getting blatantly pissed off about it and easier to rail against it.
