Asgeir Trausti - Dyrð I Dauðaþogn (10 Ara Afmælisutgafa) (2LP)

A decade on from its quiet eruption in Iceland, Dýrð Í Dauðaþögn still feels like stepping into a warm wooden room and hearing the floorboards sing. The 10 Ára Afmælisútgáfa, released in 2022, is less a victory lap than a reminder of how fully formed Ásgeir Trausti arrived. He was barely 20 when the original album landed in 2012 and became a phenomenon at home, the sort of word-of-mouth success that leads to the famous stat about one in ten Icelanders owning a copy. Spin this anniversary edition and it is easy to hear why that story stuck.

Part of the magic lies in the ground he chose to stand on. Most of the lyrics were written by Ásgeir’s father, the poet Einar Georg Einarsson, and you can feel that in the imagery. Rain, light, silence, wilderness. The melodies hang off those images with such care that even if your Icelandic is rusty, the sentiment lands. Producer Guðmundur Kristinn Jónsson keeps everything close to the bone. Acoustic guitars breathe, piano notes hang, tiny electronic pulses glow at the edges rather than pushing to the front. There is patience in these arrangements that suits the voice, a gentle, high register that carries both ease and ache.

“Leyndarmál” is still the obvious door in. It has a pulse you can follow anywhere, but what stays with you is the way the chorus crests without any strain. The title track is even quieter yet feels bigger, like the room expands around it. “Hljóða nótt” shuffles in with a candle-lit hush, while “Nýfallið regn” moves like its title suggests, all soft weight and fresh air. None of this is showy. The album’s confidence comes from focus and lightness of touch.

If you came to Ásgeir through the English-language version In the Silence, released after this record with translations by John Grant, the 10th anniversary revisit is a small revelation. The English versions are lovely and did their job in carrying these songs around the world, but the Icelandic phrasing shapes the melodies in a different way. You can hear how the syllables tuck into the guitar patterns, how the consonants clip the rhythm. It makes the choruses feel more like weather than statements, which suits the writing.

Culturally, there is a neat loop here. An album born in a tiny scene, made with family words and local hands, quietly becomes a national treasure, then crosses borders without losing its footing. That story has been told about Icelandic music before, though often with bigger gestures and more obvious gloss. Dýrð Í Dauðaþögn got there with restraint. Critics noticed at the time and the admiration has only grown. It is the sort of record people recommend to friends the way they recommend a walking track or a small café. You will like this. It is good for you.

For anyone hunting Ásgeir vinyl, this anniversary edition is the one to grab. Dýrð Í Dauðaþögn vinyl rewards a clean turntable and an unhurried evening. The bass sits warm and low, the fingerpicking glints, and his voice arrives like breath on a cold window. If you buy Ásgeir records online you will find plenty of editions, but this is the set that shows the songs in their first language and first light. It also slots nicely next to other Ásgeir albums on vinyl if your shelf already holds them. I found myself daydreaming about stumbling on a copy while browsing a Melbourne record store and texting three friends before I’d even reached the counter.

Context helps, though it is not required. Knowing the family link in the lyrics deepens the quiet pride that runs through the record. Knowing that this small Icelandic release from 2012 spread far enough to prompt an English counterpart adds a circuit-breaker thrill when you hear the Icelandic versions again. It also explains why this anniversary release in 2022 feels earned rather than ornamental. The songs have lasted. They do not require trends or tricks to sit up straight.

If you collect vinyl records Australia wide and you are picking what to file under A this month, make it this one. The 10 Ára Afmælisútgáfa does what the best anniversaries do. It slows you down long enough to notice the craft and the care, and it invites you back inside a room you might have forgotten you loved.