Gig review: Sigur Rós at Spark Arena

Jonsi Birgisson from Sigur Ros performs in Paris. Photo / Getty Images

In 2007, at the peak of my fascination with the strange, gibberish-singing, ethereal rock band Sigur Ros, I sat down at home, alone and in need, to watch their new documentary, Heima.

Meaning "Home", the feature-length video piece followed the members as they played free, outdoor shows in their native and beloved Iceland. Families shuffled to remote locations set between mountains and cuddled up with blankets in grass fields, in one of the more wholesome displays of pure music I've seen.

So seeing them in Spark Arena, a metal box, on Friday was a little different. With only the three core members on stage - Jónsi Birgisson, Georg Hólm and Orri Páll Dýrason - Sigur Ros eventually constructed an immersive and mesmerising environment, thanks - in no small part - to their award-winning lighting and visual design.

The show was split into two acts. The first half: lacking. Little connection. It sounded fine, but was missing an element. People were gazing around for no reason; no one was applauding particularly hard or long. It was unexpected for a really experienced live show that has toured for two decades.

The band was at one point the biggest name in post-rock, and maybe still is, with the dwindling attention the genre receives. The sound, broadly, is marked by rock-style instrumentation - guitars, bass and drums - being used to create atypical sounds.

In Sigur Ros' case, it's landscapes that are atmospheric, swollen and heavily reverberated. From quite substantial walls of sound to a strangely compatible contrast of Jonsi's delicate falsetto back by a single keyboard.

After a 20 minute intermission, the three returned with the only track they've released since 2013, Óveður. And along with it, a marked change.

The audience - teenagers to grandparents - was captured. The sound was deeper and more fulfilling. It was as though the band had made a connection with the audience, when previously it was unrequited.

It was a small dose of blurred nostalgia for many in the crowd. Sigur Ros were the sound of my early teenage years. It feels like a lifetime ago, that 2007 documentary, yet the band is still releasing music in a patient manner.

They played music from across their career, from their breakout 1999 album Ágætis byrjun through every studio album until 2013's Kveikur.

The flitting between imposing and tiny sounds was mirrored by a remarkable backdrop light show. Unlike anything I've seen before, images on the giant screen ranged from distorted, darkroom-red graphics, flashing and pulsating at heavier moments, to candle-like creeping of oranges and reds across long LED bars during the quieter moments.

The set built toward an astonishing three-song finale: Festival, Kveikur and Popplagið, before the band left the stage to satisfied applause from a crowd who was not an hour earlier. A trust should have been issued.

There's a reason Sigur Ros are internationally beloved across demographics, regardless of language: they create music people can anoint with their own meaning and feeling to. It does not impose. Its beauty is in the way it grows and blossoms, and ultimately, even if not immediately, satisfies.