You never forget your first time hearing Sigur Rós.
That alien falsetto, the glacial swell of strings and distortion, the aching beauty of something you can't quite name – only feel.For many in the hushed crowd at Hamer Hall last night (19 May), that first time may have been years ago. However, under the spell of Sigur Rós and a full 41-piece Melbourne Symphony Orchestra, it felt like the first time all over again.
Outside, Melbourne had dipped to two degrees that morning – the first day that felt truly cold this year. By nightfall, the chill had softened, but the sense of stillness lingered.
Inside Hamer Hall, something close to sacred unfolded. A gathering of strangers, some still wrapped in coats and scarves, were slowly undone by music that transcended words, time, and often, understanding.
Image © Laura Manariti
The show unfolded in two acts. Opening with 'Blóðberg', a glacial, slow-burning elegy from their latest record 'ÁTTA', Sigur Rós set the tone: meditative, haunting, and utterly transportive.
The orchestra – arranged with the same aching precision that shaped the album's Abbey Road-recorded strings – brought the song's emotional gravity to life. You could feel the weight in the room shift.
'Ekki múkk' followed, like frost forming quietly on glass. 'Fljótavík' drifted in like a memory you couldn't place but didn't want to leave. 'Starálfur', still one of the most breathtaking pieces in their canon, brought audible sighs and misty eyes.
The band said little. They didn't need to. Jónsi's voice, bowed guitar, and the MSO's sweeping arrangements said everything.
By the time 'Andvari' and 'Dauðalogn' rolled in, I had stopped trying to hold myself together. I didn't understand a word, but I cried more than once. Not from sadness. From recognition – some deep, wordless truth stirring beneath the surface.
After a short intermission, the second act opened with 'Untitled #1 (Vaka)' – a piece that feels like it was written for the cosmos. 'Samskeyti', its minimalist sibling, left the audience in near-total stillness, a room of thousands breathing as one.
'All Alright', a rare track in English, landed like a whispered apology to someone you didn't know you missed. 'Sé lest' bloomed from ambient haze into glorious, tumbling chaos. Then 'Hoppípolla', their most recognisable track, ignited a kind of soft euphoria – the restrained kind you only see in places where people have been profoundly moved.
Image © Laura Manariti
When the final, wordless notes of 'Avalon' drifted into silence, they hung in the air for a few seconds longer than felt real; and then: a standing ovation that lasted for minutes. No theatrics. No forced encore games. Just a room erupting in collective awe, gratitude, release.
There are few bands that cut through the noise of modern life to offer something elemental – a feeling, a flash of truth. Sigur Rós has always been one of them.
Since their formation, they've carved a place outside genre, outside language – blending ambient electronics, bowed guitars, orchestral beauty, and Jónsi's otherworldly falsetto into something that isn't quite post rock, isn't quite classical, and isn't really meant to be named. It's meant to be felt.
Last night, in communion with the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra, they delivered that feeling in overwhelming waves. It wasn't just a concert – it was a spiritual reset. A reminder of the quiet things we bury under noise, and a rare chance to feel it all without explanation.
You don't leave a Sigur Rós show humming a tune. You leave holding your breath. Changed. Tender. A little more alive.
