Sigur Rós & the Sydney Symphony Orchestra — Sydney Opera House, 23 May 2025

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

There are concerts. There are experiences. And then there are rare, transcendent moments when sound becomes something else entirely — something you feel in your chest, your skin, and your soul. Sigur Rós, in a three-night partnership with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra as part of Vivid LIVE, delivered one of those moments. A performance so immersive, so elemental, it felt like slipping through a portal — into light, into memory, into something that barely makes sense but absolutely feels true.

This wasn’t just a gig. It was a shared dream. The Opera House Concert Hall was staged in the round, the band and orchestra encircled by the audience, but more strikingly, by scattered warm white bulbs nestled among the musicians. The air was thick with haze before anyone appeared, shafts of light cutting through the fog like searchlights over a sleeping sea. Atmosphere set to full immersion.

For me, it was a leap into the unknown. I had never heard Sigur Rós before — not a track. I had read the reverent descriptions, heard the cult-like awe. But I wanted this to be my first encounter. Pure. Live. Unfiltered. I don’t speak Icelandic. I didn’t need to.

The Sydney Symphony Orchestra took the stage to quiet applause and quickly fell into position. A brief note from the piano, a few final tuning adjustments — and then silence. Expectant. Holy.

Blóðberg, drenched in red light, opened the set. A masterclass in tone and texture — the contrast between the aching voice of the viola and the thunderous pull of the double bass made it hard to tell what was felt in the ears and what was happening in the gut. Those low glissandos didn’t ask for attention — they claimed it.

Then came Ekki múkk, awash in white light, a Les Paul sang its aching lament, not with fingers, but a violin bow — Jónsi’s signature technique blurring the lines between instrument and emotion. The guitar cried, sighed, and soared.

Blue light settled over Fljótavík, and with it, a shift. The band’s pianist abandoned the grand piano and moved into percussion — alternating between the snare drum and a towering bass drum, the kind of thud that doesn’t just punctuate a rhythm, it resets your pulse.

Later in the set, Untitled #5 (Álafoss) washed over the concert hall, the orchestra glowing in a soft blue-green hue that mirrored the song’s elemental pull. It felt less like listening, and more like submerging. Like being suspended beneath the surface of a vast ocean, far from land, weightless and adrift.

There’s no urgency, no fear. Just an overwhelming stillness — punctuated by ghostlike melodies that swell and swirl, as if the sea itself were sighing. You’re not alone though. You’re surrounded by song — deep, echoing, primeval. Like the lullaby of distant whales, calling across leagues of saltwater and time.

Sigur Rós don’t just play music. They channel landscapes and seascapes, and here, they became the voice of Iceland’s cold oceans and ancient souls.

Sé lest opened like a gentle sunrise — the soft chiming of a vibraphone guiding us forward, each note glowing under warm orange light. The time signature was likely 6/8, but with Sigur Rós’s signature elasticity — it breathed, swayed, and occasionally lingered, like a moment you don’t want to end.

There was a tenderness in those opening minutes — something that felt like hope, new beginnings, or even the gentle flutter of love forming. The music didn’t just rise, it unfolded, like a flower in timelapse.

And then came the shift. A brass band — joyous, almost cheeky — paraded in, lifting the piece into something celebratory and surreal. It was an um-pah interlude plucked straight from a psychedelic fairground. You could’ve dropped this whole section right into Sgt. Pepper’s and it wouldn’t have felt out of place.

It’s the kind of moment only Sigur Rós can pull off — blending the intimate with the absurd, the cinematic with the childlike — and making it feel perfectly natural.

As the unmistakable opening notes of Hoppípolla bloomed into the hall, the audience reaction was instant — a wave of joy, like everyone had just seen an old friend step onto the stage. The bass, snare, cymbal crashes and swells lifted the energy like a tide, before crashing into that soaring, euphoric melody.

This was where the Sydney Symphony Orchestra truly roared to life — strings swelling like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, brass punching with cinematic force, and every section locking in like a single heartbeat. You could feel the stage vibrate.

Jónsi’s voice, delicate and raw, floated over it all — not above the orchestra, but within it — like a single bird gliding through a sky painted in warm reds, yellows, and glowing orange light.

Even the conductor couldn’t help themselves — swaying, grinning, practically dancing through the crescendos as if carried by the same tide as the rest of us.

When the final chord rang out, the applause was thunderous. Not just appreciation, but release. A collective exhale from a room of people who had just been reminded what pure joy sounds like.

Avalon descended like a final reckoning — the stage bathed in fierce red, even the soft white bulbs among the musicians seemed to glow with warning. Percussive piano and stabbing strings drove a march-like rhythm, echoing with the unmistakable presence of gong swells that hit like shockwaves through the chest.

There was something commanding in it all — an almost revolutionary energy. Not aggressive, but immovable. A sonic wall. It felt as though the orchestra and band had merged into a single elemental force, one last surge of sound to remind us just how immense music can be.

And then… stillness. A decrescendo into nothing. The final notes evaporated into silence as the lights dimmed — not like flipping a switch, but like the dying embers of a fire.

Then came the release.

As the house lights slowly rose, Sigur Rós stepped forward. No grand speeches. Just presence. The standing ovation that followed was heartfelt and thunderous — punctuated by a strange, beautiful moment: a kind of Icelandic whooping exchanged between Jónsi and fans from different corners of the hall. Intimate, tribal, playful.

It wasn’t just the end of a concert. It was the end of a journey. One that started in the depths of the ocean and finished in firelight.

I’ve photographed and reviewed hundreds of shows. This one stands apart. Not just for its sound, or scale, or emotional gravity — but for its perfection. Every player. Every move. Every shaft of light. As a unified expression of art, it was near spiritual.

Special credit to the staff at the Opera House, who were—as always—discreet, welcoming, and seamless. And to the team at Live Nation and Secret Sounds, who had the rare wisdom to present this as what it truly was: not just a concert, but an experience. A vivid one, at that.

Verdict: Unrepeatable. Unexplainable. Unforgettable.

Thank you to Sigur Rós, the Sydney Opera House, the Vivid Festival and the Sydney Symphony Orchestra for having us along.

Review and Photos by Andy Kershaw for Music Kingdom Australia