Icelandic quartet Sigur Ros may be critical darlings, but they don't exactly play by music industry rules. Not only does their new album not have a title, neither do any of its eight lengthy tracks, while the packaging contains no information save the address of their apparently permanently inaccessible website. No surprise, then, to find that the music itself is almost equally bleak and colourless, with gently smouldering piano and strings, and vocals that amount to little more than a series of androgynous falsettos. At its best, it's an elegant, windswept sound that neatly evokes the frozen lakes and perpetual darkness of the band's native country. Sigur Ros certainly can't be accused of pandering to the mainstream - but this time the result of their stringently highbrow approach is an album that eventually sags under the weight of its own self-importance. The truth is, five minutes of this ethereal choir music is refreshing and uplifting, but more than half an hour of it becomes quite hard to take. As a result, for the time being at least, Sigur Ros remain a band it's much easier to admire than to love.
