app-based concept album, which explores the relationship between music, nature and technology. The ambitious idea is matched by in-the-round staging that gives this aircraft hanger-like venue the intimacy of a theatre. An octagon of flatscreen TVs hover above a platform where Graduale Nobili, a 24-strong, all-female Icelandic choir wear self-conscious smiles and unflattering hooded tunics. Huddled around a central Tesla coil, they look like a cult imagined by Sofia Coppola, but sound wonderful as their voices soar over Óskasteinar.
When Björk appears, she doesn’t look much older than the fresh-faced teens, despite being 48. What sets her apart – aside from the huge, pastel-hued afro wig and a dress that looks like a lumpy pupa – is her boundless capacity to perform. Bouncing on her heels, her voice picks up on each twinkling tremor of Moon and every shuddering beat within Crystalline, her hands moving and head twitching in sync.
Björk’s childlike vocals – innocent, strange and full of abandon – are complimented by two talented musicians, MD Matt Robertson and drummer Manu Delago, and some very bespoke instrumentation. A pendulum-strung gravity harp provides Solstice’s hypnotic bassline and the Sharpsichord – a harp/barrel organ hybrid – gives Sacrifice its melancholy otherness.