A mere bagatelle, my friends.

FROSTY—that fast food shake from Wendy’s—is still written on the back of my hand from last night’s craziness at the Chicago Theatre. Sigur Ros was playing at the venue which probably suits them best, an auditorium packed with Hipsters with eight dollar popcorn and 50 dollar hoodies for sale at the lobby. Perhaps it’s most evident that you are a music snob when everyone around you is trying to do that Indie thing with the old-school pumas, vintage t-shirts, “Elvis Costello” glasses, the irony (like an inexplicable attraction to Wendy’s) … Ah, and the haircuts—I haven’t seen that much gelled up hair since that one time I tried getting in some snazzy club across the street from the Louvre. This is a sign that something is wrong. Reevaluating my music taste is the first step in the prevention of this Decked-out pathological nightmare. There’s a stack of CD’s on my bookshelf from Annie that needs to be plowed through with a good listen or two: Lucinda Williams, Bob Dylan, and an interesting collection of soundtracks which I won’t bother listing. But something keeps pulling me back to French Air, Icelandic whining, and New York dissonance. Speaking of whining, the concert was fantastic. The band opened with a few songs from their newest album, Takk. (Icelandic for thanks?) But many of the classics were featured, including Agaetis Byrjun’s “Ny Batteri” and the melancholy “Viorar vel til loftarasa”, but alas, they left out a personal favorite, “Agaetis Byrjun.” From ( ), they didn’t play much. There was the somewhat overplayed Untitled 1, but Boy, did they blow the audience away with the finale, Untitled 8. There is no need for an encore with that one!

The band:


Jonsi singing to his guitar? (who knows)


Hanging out at some bench (probably in Iceland)