Sigur Ros

There couldn't have been a better location for the first Italian date of the Icelandic band's summer tour than the cavea of Rome's Auditorium, the open-air venue designed by Renzo Piano. Perfect structure and acoustics aside, tonight isn't just going to be about sound. Here they are, Sigur Rós, one of the most talented phenomena among the recent new names on the rock scene. Even though eight years have now passed since the start of their unpredictable rise. Backed by an already sizeable following, they take risks that only masters like Radiohead dare to take, offering a set that's almost half made up of new, unfamiliar songs. Though it's worth noting that three of the seven tracks drawn from the new album, "Takk…" are already familiar to the diehard fans, having been played live on the last tour and in brief live appearances. Even so, it's a risk that only a band of a certain caliber can afford to take. And they, despite their peculiar shyness and humility, clear the hurdle with a veteran's confidence.

The cavea is nearly packed. The warm-up act falls to Amina, a quartet - though not only of strings - made up of four adorable girls, also Icelandic, invaluable collaborators of the band, who present their EP "AminaAmina". A prelude and a taste of the atmospheres that will define the evening. Instrumental suites with hints of loops and ambient experimentation. Among the occasional instruments, a saw and some glasses stand out. Worth noting is the candor of "Fjarskanistan" and the hypnosis of "Blaskjar". A proper voice would make them truly interesting.

With equal modesty, the real stars of the evening step onto the stage from behind a peculiar three-curtain backdrop. After an unsettling introductory drone, things kick off with "Glósóli", the first unreleased song of the night. A strange, crackling percussion drives the shrill, evanescent keyboards. The voice materializes, celestial and dreamy, for a solemnity broken only in the dizzying final crescendo, with sudden thunderclaps of bass and drums that begin carving the ice in a vortex that suddenly fades into a distant burst of little bells.

Jónsi wields his trusty violin bow in that stance that makes him unique and unmistakable, even in the silhouette of his shadow projected onto the screen behind him. The long introduction is met with a roar. It's the old gem "Ný batterí", one of the most pop moments of the evening. Pop in their own way, meaning melodic immediacy, because melancholy always remains the undisputed queen of the emotional see-saw marked out by the organ standing in for horns. Also from "Ágætis Byrjun" comes the other song that made them famous, the enchanting hymn of the ice, "Svefn-g-englar". A ten-minute emotional whirlwind with Jónsi's moving vocals, enveloping and mesmerizing. Relief and despair.

After the nostalgia, Amina return to the stage, and with them come more new songs. In hopelandic (literally: “speranzese”, the personal language shaped by Jónsi, made of vocalizations, moans and trills). "Sæglópur", with piano that strongly recalls Patti Smith's "Because The Night" and an almost wave-like gait, best imagined still firmly within a Sigur Rós framework. The rhythmic spirals are torn open by icy violins that choke the song into a faint torpor, out of which the dazzling "Sé lest" (already known as "Celesta") is reborn, in its interweaving of glockenspiel, piano and, indeed, celesta. Fairy-tale-like enough to melt even the coldest hearts. And then the other two new-but-not-quite-unreleased songs: along the same lines, the romantic "Milanó", distinguished by an orchestral surge that acts as a dividing line between the song's two soft passages; and the far darker "Gong" (the best of the new songs), with its dark rhythm and final rage, which as usual implodes timidly into the quiet of the ending.

More multi-instrumental than ever - Orri, the drummer, alternates on xylophone with Jónsi, while Kjartan splits his time between keyboard and guitar - Sigur Rós present the last new song of the evening, the veiled decadence of "Andvari", an indirect tribute to Radiohead.

The violin bow keeps swaying gracefully. It almost seems to conduct the kaleidoscopic images flowing across the screen, blending with the glow of a carefully judged interplay of lights and colors. A burst of applause greets "Vaka", the opening track of the third album, the untitled "( )": nocturnal piano and shrill violin swells over guitar, for one of the most moving and best-performed moments of the night. Seven minutes of lunar suggestions and shivers down the spine. In a setting this evocative, visually and sonically, two of the most cinematic songs in their repertoire simply have to feature. The first is "Viðrar vel til loftárása", the anguished dialogue between piano and strings that seem to speak to each other. Jónsi's voice seems to hide, intimidated, right up to the silent five-second interlude. Five seconds held in suspension, in a paroxysm that triggers a deafening symphonic geyser. The second is the arctic march of "Njósnavélin" (the one from "Vanilla Sky" that made half of Hollywood fall in love), which lightens the mood.

Also because before that comes "Hafssól", the only track drawn from the still-raw debut "Von", introduced by the diligent Georg's bass strokes. Epic and solemn, with a shimmering final acceleration driven by Orri's unstoppable drumming. The voice outdoes itself. Just as in the joyous explosion of nature in the paradisiacal post-rock of "Olsen Olsen", between near-waltz slowdowns and orchestral flights of flute and piano. And finally, the long, dreamlike ride of "Popplagið", the closing track of "()".

Climax turned into song (even though Sigur Rós are light years away from the traditional song format). The curtain falls slowly. From whispers climbing over a velvety arpeggio to the crescendo that heralds the impetuous finale. The last merciless storm shattering the ice after two hours of lights, shadows, roars and silences. The curtain falls for good. Anything but talkative, our heroes leave the stage in silence, shy and reserved. Heads bowed, like four enraptured little elves. But they come back, somewhat unexpectedly, for a final bow without adding a single word. That's how they say thank you.

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