Published December 5, 2005
The house songwriter Ingibjörg Þorbergs was born in eventually housed poet Kristján Hreinsson, and here they have collaborated on an album whose mere creative process seems to guarantee it instant success among the knitwear-clad “cute” generation of Icelandic musicians and artists Reykjavík regrettably spawned 20-25 years ago.
As an album, it fails to amount to much, but it does have some redeeming qualities; the sweeping piano melodies of Píanóleikarinn and Hið Stóra Skref seem to betray the hint of passion backing band Flís lack on the rest of the songs, and Ingibjörg’s dignified, enigmatic voice has enough husky sensualism to make me wish she wasn’t pushing 80.
Although a musically pointless album full of inane ditties too forgettable to like and too clichéd to sing along to, it is undoubtedly the exact album its creators intended to make: a charming collection of children’s songs that far too many adults will enjoy, or at least pretend to enjoy so they can appear fashionably appreciative of “diverse” music.
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