“Music is the magic that happens in a moment. If you start dissecting it then you might spoil it. Sometimes you can discover new facets in music by talking in a superficial way about it but as soon as you try to get any deeper than that, you're in trouble. After all, things that are dissected usually need to be dead first.”
I always believed in the firm truth of this statement in the same zest I detested my professors' fervent endeavors to analyze poetry by methodically distilling precise meaning word by word. Art cannot thrive in content unless it's free from textual limitations. It has to be vast like the clear blue sky, like the air through the clouds intuitive and unrestrained. Open to abstract interpretations of our subjective minds. I remember the first time I listened to Sigur Rós yet tinted by my youthful innocence: Lucid words of the spiritual world. Melodies made of fairydust. The first image that effortlessly came to mind was the Northern Lights. Aurora Boreallis, I read later. Dreams of finding myself under the auroral zone followed and life took me to Iceland some years ago. I didn't get to observe the light display of magic but the same magic endures when a little elf stares at me through my i-pod as it plays Starálfur and that's what matters.