Icelandic acts must get sick of being compared to their glorious country’s famed environment, yet it so often fits. Arny Margret’s work, for example, is delicate and gloriously atmospheric, but also packs lyrical power: the comforting musical equivalent of an iceberg floating through the half-light of a bay in the northern fjords from which she hails.
“Sublime, wistful songs that draw on themes of love and longing” reads the description on Margret’s website, and its apt: there’s a beauty in Margret’s delicacy, a poignancy in the way she fuses shades of light and dark; hues of emotion and what feels like a musical search for meaning.
