Sigur Ros’ seventh studio album, Kveikur (XL Records), returns the Icelandic band to a sound more reminiscent of their native landscape: beautiful, barren, and rocky. The album retains some of the watery electronics prevalent on Valtari, their 2012 release, but harkens back to the chimes, post-rock guitar, and traditional beats on Takk (2005) and Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust (2008).

I saw Sigur Ros perform at Bonnaroo in 2008, the first year they toured with a fucking marching band. It was outrageous (white and red suits and instruments), mind-blowing (the level of professionalism on so many instruments), absolutely the most thrilling concert I’ve seen (though I was hopping up and down like kernel to witness the ever-changing set). And it was a concert—like watching Led Zeppelin or the New York Philharmonic. The sun was setting, the energy was enormous, the crowd was full of psychedelics (and probably void of any real food), and the sound was enrapturing! It was an “experience;” after which, oddly enough, I stopped listening to the band. As if Sigur Ros music exploded and I couldn’t possibly put the pieces back together. The same pieces, I think, the band compiles every album out of. As if the music exploded for them too. Kveikur is a variation on a theme—gorgeous and unusual, but I just don’t like doing the same puzzle (a castle in the clouds; a seaside view with lighthouse; a flock of Escher-birds; some faeries in a magical garden) over and over again.

The thing is, I love this album, just like I love a puzzle when I’m in the mood. It incorporates a few different elements, but mostly it infuses the Sigur Ros style I like the best (rock) into the fantasy. Starting off with a heavy chain of a song ("Brenniseinn"), the album drags slowly over a medieval landscape. Fanfare and horns (in "Hrafntinna") lower down the promise of something Sigur Ros-traditional and fun ("Isjaki"). The title track is one of the most exciting Sigur Ros songs I’ve heard in a while, because it unleashes a level of noise (bordering on punk rock) I had come to not-expect. And the final track, "Var," is a like waking up from a nap to discover we’re a character, stolen and placed in a high tower (that damn castle again).

I guess we’ll have to wait until Sigur Ros releases their next album to find out if the dragon is slayed, or—the pattern indicates it’s the more likely outcome—the dragon extracts us, hair blowing like a waterfall, and carries us away to another pretty place. 

Grade: B

Just days ago, two equally awful things slipped out early and were ushered into this world where they will occupy our thoughts far, far longer than they should: the Kimye baby and Kanye’s new album, Yeezus. It’s unfair to place blame on either of these products; they are victims of irresponsibility, carelessness, and ego. Instead, blame the one responsible for producing both of them: Kanye West.

Kanye West is not “the Steve Jobs of internet, fashion and culture” as he claimed in a recent interview. He is also not a God, as he suggests several times in Yeezus. He is an asshole. And that’s okay, as long as he’s making great music. He can spend the rest of his life ruining Taylor Swift’s big moment and getting mad at people for not liking his skirts but as long as he keeps putting out albums as good as My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, I honestly don’t care. But when he puts out steaming, heaping piles of garbage like Yeezus, I feel like I have to say something.

The easy defense of this album is that he’s an artist and he’s experimenting and of course it’s going to sound different. So if you think it’s brilliant to sample a random bubblegum-pop song from the 1970’s while rapping “I wanna fuck you hard on the sink/After that, give you something to drink/Step back, can’t get spunk on the mink” as he does on the tenth track “Bound 2,” you will probably love this album. But I don’t, and it’s because of shit like this. “Bound 2” sounds like a mailed-in version of “Slow Jamz,” but what made “Slow Jamz” so great was the originality – sampling Luther Vandross with a fresh beat of his own was a great idea and it was produced very well. Jamie Foxx didn’t hurt, either. “Bound 2,” on the other hand, is not original at all: he doesn’t sample the song as much as rip it off, because there’s no other beat. So what we are left with is generic rapping (fucking, mink coats) over the chorus of a song that nobody has heard of or remembers. And because it’s Kanye, we are supposed to like it.

With Yeezus, he is trending away from good music towards seeing what he can get away with. I don’t know how else to explain this album. In “New Slaves,” the fourth track on the album, Kanye seems to be making the point that people like him used to not be allowed in certain stores, and now these same stores are encouraging people like him to come in so they can take advantage of him and his money. I don’t really disagree with the point, but I disagree with how he chose “I’d rather be a dick than a swallower” to be the bridge; if you are really trying to indict society and point out how much we all suck, at least wait until the next song to be a jackass again. When you couple that with the fact that the beat on “New Slaves” might have been made by a six year-old playing with Kidz Beatz or some shit on his iPad, you have a really awful song.

But as is bound to happen when you are stewing around in a steaming, heaping pile of garbage – which is how I’d describe the process of listening to Yeezus – you will try hard to find something pleasant about it. This may explain why I kind of like the 7^th track “Blood on the Leaves.” It actually has a discernible beat and is not just an amalgamation of random sounds, like much of the rest of the album. It is also only slightly ruined by auto-tune, which I have to chalk up as a victory. The ninth track “Send it Up” and the opening track “On Sight” are also relatively good, and I suppose if someone twisted my arm enough I could get down with the second track, “Black Skinhead.” But a reminder: I’m trying to find something pleasant in a steaming, heaping pile of garbage.

In case there is any confusion, I don’t like this album. And unlike other albums that I don’t care for but can understand the appeal, I can’t understand the appeal here. Six out of the ten songs on Yeezus are remarkably bad, and the remaining four would be skipped over if they were on any of his previous albums; overall, it is a collection of terrible beats and insufferable lyrics and an example of when giving Kanye the green light to do whatever the fuck he wants goes horribly wrong.

Grade: D

Dear Haggus,

The last Lemuria album I listened to was the CD that ended up on the floor of your car, its case smashed because somebody stepped on it. 

It took me awhile to give that record a chance. I completely dismissed it - and Lemuria - due to our mutual friend, the one who had a crush on their guitarist. He would drag me to the Park and Shop so he could watch her run the register while I sat in the car, sweating, too embarrassed to play wingman, too spineless to say no. He had his own car, and I had no nerve, so I just played along, hiding the fact that I wanted to slug him while he made up reasons to visit the bottle return counter at a grocery store 25 miles away.

That's a stupid reason not to listen to a band. Even so, it took me awhile to get over myself. It takes awhile to get over a lot of the weird baggage we carry with us from our youthful travels and travails. You know that better than anyone else.

* * *

Listening to Lemuria's latest (which drops today - on Bridge 9 Records, no less), I'm struck by two things: first, these guys sound like the Martha Dumptruck Massacre with a more fragile version of Jenny Lewis from Rilo Kiley on a second mic (I know at least one of those means something to you). Second, why the hell aren't we putting out records on Bridge 9?

Why aren't we famous?

We've been wailing away on our respective axes since we were kids. Two members of Lemuria come from the same place we do. We've spent our lives fighting our way out of the cow shit and the meth labs of New York's Southern Tier, same as these guys. We've been to the same punk shows, grew up in the same scene. How come we're not being reviewed on NPR? How come we're not sharing a record label with Agnostic Front and H2O?

How come we're not famous?

It might have something to do with the fact that the last time we tried to record something we stopped halfway through, too hung over to finish, too lazy to come back to it later. Lemuria have been working their asses off for the past ten years, putting out solid tunes while touring like it's their job. You and I couldn't even stick to a schedule of playing Dungeons and Dragons when you were unemployed and we lived in the same town.

Maybe it's because Alex Kerns drums like he's been practicing during the years you and I were drinking and calling each other names, and now he can put weird time signatures into the middle of any song while still sharing lead vocal duties, and you still can't play our fills right. Maybe it's because I can't put together an original bass line to save my life, while this Max Gregor guy - who's only been with the band since 2010 - is able to put some muscle behind a sound so perfect and porcelain, like someone set the table with the good china, and he can choose either to keep a close watch, or he can jump around like a drunk asshole, smash everything against the wall in a precious white mess, and piss off the guy who lives upstairs. 

But he doesn't get sloppy. He keeps it tidy and makes sure no one else gets too rowdy.

You asshole.

* * *

I've made some kind of peace with our friend. For one thing, I don't have to sit upstairs anymore, watching One Hour Photo with his parents while he's in the basement, making out with some girl. We're not teenagers, for chrissake. And these days I have something resembling a backbone.

We're adults now. Listening to this album, though, I can't help thinking about where we've been; about the things we were supposed to do, but were too hung over or lazy or stupid to get done. And I think about the things we're about to do - me, having a kid and writing in public; you, moving out and up, finding real love and, in a few months, moving across the country.

"It's never too late to be what you might have been," they're singing while I write this.

And I'm telling you to pick this one up. Unlike the last CD you bought, nobody can step on a digital copy. And when you're on the road, headed west - after you've driven a mile or two and you've run through the Queers and the Lawrence Arms and Slick Rick for the thousandth time and Ronni's given in and stopped to let you pick up a six pack so you'll shut up, put Lemuria on.

It'll get you thinking about what could have been, or what's going to be. Either way, you've got the time, and the distance is so big.

Love,

Vince Malero