Sigur Ros - Kveikur (2LP)

Kveikur arrived in June 2013 like a jolt of electricity through the Sigur Rós catalogue, their first record as a trio following the departure of keyboardist Kjartan Sveinsson and their debut on XL Recordings. The title roughly translates to fuse or wick, and that feels right. Where Valtari drifted like mist, this one sparks, spits and leaves scorch marks.

The opening track Brennisteinn sets the scene with a low, grinding bass that feels like moving earth. Georg Hólm’s lines lurk and loom, while Orri Páll Dýrason hammers out a beat that’s closer to an industrial march than the glacial rolls of old. Jónsi still bows his guitar like a ghost whispering through rebar, but the sweetness is tempered by grit. The video for Brennisteinn, directed by Andrew Thomas Huang, doubled down on this feel, bathing the song in sulphuric tones and ash. The band always had scale, but here they harness weight, and it suits them.

Even with that heavier palette, Kveikur isn’t monochrome. Ísjaki is proof. It rushes forward with a bright, ringing hook and the sort of vocal lift that fans of Takk… will recognise. There was a radio edit used as a single, and it makes sense. It’s the closest thing to a pop moment on the record without sandpapering the edges. The title track, Kveikur, snarls and lurches with clattering percussion and a churning low end, but Jónsi’s melodies cut through like clear air after a squall.

A lot of this album’s energy comes from the way they recorded and arranged it. The trio tracked at their Sundlaugin studio near Reykjavík, and you can hear the room in the drums, the air around the bowed guitar, the rattle of found percussion. Hrafntinna feels like a workshop in motion, with bells and clatter stacking into a black, glittering wall. Yfirborð surges and recedes, as if the band is testing how far they can push the speakers before slipping back into a hush. Rafstraumur rides a pulsing, almost electronic groove without losing the human thump of sticks on skins. Then, right at the end, Var lets the lights dim. It’s a somber, spacious closer that nods to their ambient side and frames the record’s aggression with a final sigh.

One of the myths about Sigur Rós is that their power depends on sweep and sentiment. Kveikur proves they can be visceral too. The trio themselves called it their heaviest work in interviews around release, and you can hear why, but heaviness here isn’t just volume. It’s in the textures, the scrape of bow on string, the dense bass that feels like it’s coming up from the floor. The lyrics are largely in Icelandic, yet the intent is plain. You don’t need a translation to feel the tension unwind in Stormur, a track the band paired with an evolving fan-made video project on Instagram at the time. The human connection sits right there in the sound.

As a pivot point in their discography, Kveikur is a thrill. It keeps the band’s widescreen beauty but swaps out shimmer for steel. If you’ve always loved the drift of Ágætis byrjun and the uplift of Takk…, this is the record that shows how those instincts survive a rougher climate. It’s also the moment where the rhythm section becomes the story, and it reshapes everything around it.

If you’re hunting for Sigur Rós vinyl, this is one worth tracking down. The low end on Kveikur vinyl carries real physicality, and the quiet passages stay intact, which is half the magic. I’ve seen copies come and go at my local Melbourne record store, and they don’t linger long. If you’re browsing vinyl records Australia late at night, keep it on your list, or just buy Sigur Rós records online before the price jumps again. For anyone building a shelf of Sigur Rós albums on vinyl, this one sits neatly next to Valtari and Takk…, a darker sibling that still speaks the same language.

Kveikur isn’t just a change of mood. It’s the sound of a band tightening the screws after a long, airy exhale, finding menace and momentum without losing their heart. A decade on, it still feels charged, like a fuse that never quite stops burning.