In ten years, Sigur Rós have gone from impenetrable Icelandic imps to regrettable remix fodder – a terrifying trajectory to chart over a time period that tends to span most bands’ entire careers. While 1999’s Agaetis Byrjun remains an unsurpassed pinnacle of unexplainable magic and stately beauty, each subsequent album has yielded gradually diminishing returns. Sure, () is still a stunning statement – its three-syllable vocals and eight impenetrable mini-symphonies are the exact antithesis of everything a “breakthrough” record is meant to be – but, for all its bluster (not helped by some seriously over-loud mastering), follow-up Takk… occasionally sounded more like the result of an ideal Sigur-Rós album focus group than a concerted artistic endeavour.

Meanwhile, the two most interesting things to say about last year’s Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust, recorded in the wake of the astonishing, career-consolidating documentary Heima, were that it started with A Song That Sounded A Bit Like Animal Collective, and ended with A Song Sung Entirely In English. The remainder of the album’s attempts to refine its predecessor’s pop hooks was completely undermined by the ubiquity of ‘Hoppípolla’ – though inescapable, it still remains one of the most powerful pieces of music to emerge this century, retaining the ability to stop hearts at ten paces.

The first record from Sigur Rós singer Jón Þór Birgisson outside of the SR banner, Riceboy Sleeps was recorded in collaboration with partner Alex Somers; it’s an achingly ambient seventy minutes, and the most natural, organic-sounding collection which Jónsi’s put his name to in a ten years. The Sigur signifiers are all here – not least Birgisson’s impassioned falsetto, here put through so many filters as to make it sound even less human – but the album’s nine structureless, wordless pieces seem like an attempt to break the new ground that Með suð… failed to cover. It’s a bold move, but one which, song-for-song, begins to work surprisingly well; the climax of ‘Atlas Song’ – in which a choir begs to be heard over a trickle of collapsing pianos – is genuinely moving, while ‘Boy 1904’ is the sound of a blindfolded walk through a midnight mass.

Still, over the course of an entire album, what makes the individual tracks sound so special – the snatches of found sound, the instruments and noises which drift, transistor radio-style, in and out of the mix – begins to wear thin and even border on the tedious at times. Had some of these songs found their way onto Sigur Rós albums (new or old), their effect as isolated moments of beauty would have worked far greater than as a scrapbook of spectral sounds. Likewise, great though opener ‘Happiness’ is, it worked far better in context of the Dark Was the Night compilation – an unexpected, Lost in Translation-style interlude of ethereal city-at-night ambience in an otherwise flustered indie rock setting. Still, Riceboy Sleeps is an admirable endeavour on the whole; just one which, unless your phasers are set firmly to “snooze”, it’s somewhat difficult to stay overly focussed on in one sitting.
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