Close but no Sigor

Looking around the cavernous environs of the Temple, the faithful congregation thronging the floor and the balconies, you’d be forgiven for thinking that Sigur Rós had found a perfect Dublin home for themselves. Well, given the lack of shimmering glaciers with a decent PA and a D1 postcode, it’s the next logical choice, but tonight our Icelandic heroes are struggling to make the most of their extra breathing space.

It’s not the tunes that provide the problems – the Agætis byrjun material is all present and correct, and possessed of the same icy melancholy that you’ll hear on record but there’s too few moments where the emotional punch connects solidly. If you’re going to be in front of an audience for two and half hours, you’d better have some pretty good tricks up your sleeve, but tonight there’s too much restraint and not enough release. Which is fine if you really want to fuck Sting, but not so good when you’re watching a perfunctory rendition of ‘Svefn-G-Englar’ that you’ve seen performed a million times better in the ol’ Music Centre.

It doesn’t help that they choose not to make use of the large screens flanking the stage, as Sigur Rós are not the most visually captivating band you’ll ever see - there’s only so many times you can go “ooh look, he’s playing his guitar with a bow!” At times they’re in desperate need of a complimentary focus, particularly during the deathless collaboration with poet Steindor Andersen (think an Icelandic Sean O’Riada).

When it does manage to soar, on the wings of a redemptory ‘Agætis byrjun’ or a guitar-shredding ‘Ny batteri’, it’s a glorious and heart-swelling as it should be. But these are hen’s teeth glimpses of a unique talent, masked by fatigue and particularly limp acoustics, and doubly frustrating for all that.