Happy 20th Anniversary to Sigur Rós’ fourth studio album Takk…, originally September 13, 2005.
There are expensive retreats in remote places; meditation apps that send push notifications when it’s time to collect yourself, a barrage of snake oil products for easing the tempers, gratitude journaling. A seemingly infinite cadre of goods and services designed (presumably) to get you to just slow down, man. Appreciate the simple things in life. I don’t blame you if these things have felt necessary at some point in the past few years, but next time you’re tempted, just try Takk… (2005).
Takk…, the fourth studio album by Sigur Rós, is the sound of the woods in the early morning, the fog hanging low over the treetops, a cup of coffee steaming slowly in your hand. Its moments of fervor and chaos are there to emphasize its tranquility, not the other way around. It is then a reminder that peace is emotionally substantial and necessary; not a valley that we carve out between the “important” things in life, but the substance of life itself. We all know this in our heads, but find it hard to execute in the hectic mania of modern life. The great gift of Takk… is that it makes the feeling so immediate and real that it becomes the only state of being you can muster.
The first half of the album is a place setting. There are occasional moments of majesty and even raucousness in the early songs (“Sæglópur,” the back half of “Glósóli”), but the album’s emotional core is reserved for the patient listener; its three great emotional peaks are hidden in the back.
The first belongs to “Milanó,” an extremely slow track on which Jónsi repeats one phrase in Hopelandic (Sigur Rós’ made-up language). Its emotional tenor changing slightly each time; as the track grows in volume and urgency, Jónsi takes the lead and hits the peak first, the rest of the instruments rising to meet him. He takes a leap without knowing that he will be caught, and foists that amazing uncertainty onto us. It’s the moment your patience is rewarded and the band flushes you with joy and hope, repeating the trick again near the end of the song. It is one of the loudest moments on Takk…, one of a small number of big crescendos, but the real thrill is the tense, white space before the band places a landing pad. It’s the jump that matters.
Listen to the Album:
Then enter “Andvari,” a six-minute track that rarely rises above a whisper. It clicks into focus with a delicate bass note from Georg Hólm as Jónsi picks delicately on the electric guitar. The bass part establishes a short ascending line, picked up and elaborated upon by the xylophone, a tender camaraderie in the minute before the drums and vocals enter. “Andvari” does grow over time but backs off halfway through—as if deciding that a crescendo isn’t important. We’re rewarded instead with a slow, repeating string part, a song with nowhere in particular to be, except for right here. It is somehow compositionally bold while feeling safe.
Takk…’s final, triumphant beat comes in the form of “Heysátan,” another whisp of a song. Just like album opener “Glósóli” did an hour before, it begins with a pronounced, slow bass part. While the melodies are not the same, the similar instrumentation and shared key of G major suggest a return to where we started. Each time I listen to Takk…, this is the moment where I feel like I get it. We’re home before we even realize we’re there. Maybe we’ve been home the whole time.
“Takk” is Icelandic for “Thank you.” The comfort, the euphoria that I feel when listening to the record is a feeling of gratitude. It’s not about how high we can go, it’s about having somewhere to come back down to. Takk… is what it sounds like to be safe, to be cared for, to be loved; it’s the sound of a soul soothed in a world that seems less and less interested in that.
Listen: