Album Review: Sigrún Á Rangá – A Timeless Slice of Icelandic Folk Magic
Let me tell you, there’s something about Sigrún Á Rangá that feels like stepping into a dreamy, windswept meadow in Iceland. Released way back in 1972, this gem from Sigrún Á Rangá and Ólafur Vignir Albertsson is one of those albums that sneaks up on you when you least expect it. It’s folk music with soul, heart, and just enough grit to make it unforgettable. And yeah, I know "folk" might sound kinda dusty or old-school to some people, but trust me—this isn’t your grandpa’s banjo-strumming singalong.
First off, let’s talk vocals. Sigrún’s voice? Pure magic. She doesn’t just sing; she paints. Every word feels alive, like she’s whispering secrets directly into your ear. Then there’s Ólafur tickling the piano keys behind her—it’s simple, sure, but man, does it work. Together, they create this warm, intimate vibe that makes you wanna curl up by a fire (or maybe stare out at an endless Icelandic horizon if you’re feeling poetic).
Now, onto the tracks. There are six songs here, each more haunting than the last, but two really stuck with me: “Fölnuð Er Liljan” and “Litfríð Og Ljóshærð.”
“Fölnuð Er Liljan” hits different. The melody is so delicate, almost fragile, but Sigrún’s voice carries this quiet strength that pulls you right in. You can practically smell the lilacs blooming as she sings—it’s not just a song; it’s a moment frozen in time. Something about the way her voice cracks ever so slightly on certain notes gives me goosebumps every single time. Like, how do you even describe that? It’s raw emotion bottled up in three minutes of pure beauty.
And then there’s “Litfríð Og Ljóshærð,” which feels like sunlight breaking through clouds after days of rain. This one’s brighter, cheerier, but still packed with depth. Ólafur’s piano lines dance around Sigrún’s voice like they’re having their own little conversation. By the end, you’re left smiling for no reason other than the fact that music can sometimes feel like a hug you didn’t know you needed.
Honestly, listening to this album feels like finding an old photograph tucked inside a book—you don’t remember putting it there, but suddenly it floods you with memories you didn’t realize you had. That’s what Sigrún Á Rangá does. It’s nostalgic without being sappy, emotional without being over-the-top.
Here’s the kicker though—why isn’t this album talked about more? Seriously, where’s the Netflix docuseries? Where’s the vinyl reissue? Maybe it’s better this way, though. Sometimes great art stays small and personal, like a secret shared between friends. So go ahead, give it a listen. Just don’t blame me if you find yourself daydreaming about Icelandic fields and wondering why modern music doesn’t hit quite the same anymore.
