So here we are. Do you remember Sigur Ros? You’ll have to excuse the fact that there aren’t the appropriate accents above various letters in their name; there is the capacity to find out exactly what and where they belong, but who has time for ephemera like that, really.

Sigur Ros represents a time and place that seems quite removed from the here and now. What it creates is 2006. Perhaps even earlier. It’s funny that the words don’t make any sense, evidently not to us and not to anyone; a hodgepodge neologistic thing built up from scraps of Icelandic and English.

They probably made sense to him though. Who would write a song with no meaning. It seems nihilistic, almost. It’s probably a good way to write a song. This way, everyone can create their own meaning from the words that they think they hear. Makes it more accessible to a mainstream audience. Not that Sigur Ros is anything but mainstream.

They played at the Enmore Theatre, it might have been Easter or thereabouts; it was definitely 2006. It might have been 2005. There were people stoned, people talking, people enjoying themselves, others not so much. There was a park, after darkness fallen, post-musicality, regrouping and laughter. And there was a room, with bodies crammed in like sardines, resting peacefully and communally.

That’s a memory.