Across Borders And Decades, múm Carries On

Era-defining experimental group múm release their first LP in 12 years

It’s been 25 years since múm released their debut album Yesterday was dramatic, today is ok. Ushering in a new era of independent electronic music, múm quickly took the world by quiet storm. Now, 12 years since their last album release, the band spills the beans about their forthcoming LP History of Silence, out September 19.

Coming out of Iceland’s burgeoning music scene in the late 90s, which favoured experimentalism and overt emotional expression, múm’s mixture of orthodox electronica and conventional instruments came to define the subsequent era. As the international music press started to pay attention to them, múm was labelled in conjunction with the increased interest in Iceland at the time. Namely, that its music was somehow synonymous with the physical and natural properties of the country — much akin to Sigur Rós’s press coverage.

In Iceland, múm was harshly branded by the domestic press as the vanguard of the nascent ‘cute generation’ (krúttkynslóðin, also translated as the Mild Bunch by author Hallgrímur Helgason).

Perhaps harshly critical — some múm members were still just teenagers at the time — the band’s music has always been imbued by a degree of naïveté. Portraying innocence in its purest forms, in terms of music making múm have more or less just done whatever they felt like. Whether for practical or romantic purposes, it has imprinted a sense of wonder and fun onto the soft-spoken group.

Although it’s difficult to say if the tabloid-style coverage in the ‘00s had any meaningful effects on the group’s popularity in Iceland, it’s a fact that múm enjoys much greater fame outside it.

Cutesy or not, múm has never particularly cared for definitions.

“We are not like a traditional band,” Örvar Þóreyar Smárason emphasises in the basement of 12 Tónar, as the conversation drifts to the cover photography session. “There’s been an incredible amount of people that’s gone through múm,” he continues.

Much like their music, múm’s organisational facet has always been up for discussion and interpretation, making it a tricky subject for fans and music pundits to box in.

The history of the band’s lineup has consistently been characterised by transience, as seemingly every important Icelandic musician active in the ‘00s was a member in some shape or form.
“There has never been a moment where we discuss how we define ourselves.”

Today, the group consists of founders Örvar Þóreyjar Smárason and Gunnar Tynes; Finnish drummer Samuli Kosminen; Gyða Valtýsdóttir; Róberta Andersen; and Sigurlaug “Silla” Gísladóttir. The three present for the interview — Örvar, Silla, and Róberta (the sextet is seldom in the same place at the same time) — had suggested compiling every past and present member of múm for a group portrait — a logistical nightmare for anyone responsible for organising it.

To this day, múm fiercely denies defining themselves, as they have always done. “The only times we need to mention it is during interviews,” Örvar says, only half-jokingly. “There has never been a moment where we discuss how we define ourselves. But there is an interesting point,” his face lights up, seemingly trying to find the question’s silver lining, “I think this is the first time that we release two consecutive albums with an unchanged lineup, more or less.”

The statement kicks up doubts among the three, who quietly count the members until everyone agrees.

“I think it’s always important to never stick to a prescribed arrangement,” Örvar argues for the band’s unorthodox style. “To never cling onto things. Rather allow those who wanted to be a part each time and make that work. Defining ourselves is pointless. I think it’s a bit of an uppity thing to do. And then we call ourselves a band when we need to,” he smiles.

Romantic pragmatists

As with every person spending time with the experimental outfit, múm’s members all share an immense sense of prolificness. Much like the common trope about Icelandic musicians in general, all of them divide their time between multiple projects: Örvar has worked intensely with electronica superstars FM Belfast; Silla keeps her solo project Mr. Silla alive and well; and Róberta is one third of the progressive jazz group Hist og — to name a few examples.

This arrangement is nothing but beneficial, the three agree. “It allows you to maintain separate creative outlets,” Silla explains. “I think it’s necessary when you have this group of super creative people. No one’s just an instrumentalist. No one is doing this as a hobby or because it’s fun, but because we feel it’s a creative calling,” Örvar expresses.

Despite it being 12 years since their last LP release (múm released an EP in 2018 following their Menschen Am Sonntag silent film score) múm members have never conceived of embarking on a hiatus. However strange a statement that sounds to the local Icelander — múm’s Icelandic performances are few and far between — the band has never allowed a year to go by without them playing somewhere.

As the band continued throughout the 2010s and the COVID pandemic, there reached a point where they felt the creative itch to release a new album.
“No one is doing this as a hobby or because it’s fun, but because we feel it’s a creative calling.”

“[History of Silence] has been a slow-cooker. We’ve been working on it for a few years,” Silla mentions. “Right, two and a half years,” Örvar adds. “It’s an album that was supposed to be finished quickly. We planned on recording the entirety of it in two weeks,” he continues.

“But you can never decide how the project pans out,” Sigurlaug replies, hinting at the animated independence of creative projects.

“It was just natural,” Örvar starts and then corrects himself. “No, it wasn’t natural. We just suddenly wanted to create a record again. We felt a thirst,” he states.

With the principal recordings taking place over two weeks in Sudestudio in Southern Italy, the group found precious time to work with each other. “The plan was to just leave. Go somewhere and be away from everyone else. That’s always been the main thing. Getting away to have time and space,” Örvar admits.

“It was great,” Silla comments. “It had a pool. The Italians laughed at us because it was too cold to actually be swimming. And then we played a few shows in Italy. It was lovely,” she shares.

“It was just in the middle of nowhere. Nothing but vineyards everywhere around. No towns. Nothing,” Örvar describes.

As Örvar demonstrates, running off to a far-flung place to make music has been an integral part of múm’s recording process. Interestingly, this has more pragmatic explanations than romantic ones.

“Of course, what you want it to be is magic and some such,” Örvar starts. “But first and foremost, it’s about getting to spend time with each other. Being together in the same place and not having to think about anything else. And just give yourself time to be together and… not even focus, but just live into it.”

“Just going for it. Executing it,” Silla adds.

“That’s something we started doing early on. During the second album, we started feeling like we didn’t have the time to create a record — that we didn’t have the time or space. Still, we were barely into our 20s,” Örvar remarks critically. “‘We can’t do it. It’s impossible. We’re too busy.’ That’s when we started making trips to these lighthouses,” he refers to múm’s sophomore album, recorded in the Galtarviti lighthouse in the Westfjords.

“It had nothing to do with any symbolism surrounding lighthouses, or Icelandic nature or anything. It was just pragmatic,” he says blankly.

“But incredibly romantic,” Silla smiles.

With band members living in Finland, Germany, Greece, and Iceland, both band practices and group photos are hard to organise. Cover: Hörður Sveinsson

Sculpting the album

For anyone involved in a relationship spanning decades, making things work and finding a spark can be an integral part of keeping everything afloat. Like in every undertaking, múm experienced a few hurdles along the way.

“Firstly, for everyone embarking on a creative journey, things never turn out as you imagine them at the start. That’s one of the most important things to deal with,” Örvar says of the challenges posed to the group.

“Generally speaking, you need to put yourself in the position to finish things. It’s not as fun, not as easy, to finish a single thing than it is to start it. So of course you need to push yourself. But you can make it work for you,” he continues.

“There was a point in time when we thought the album would never be over. ‘This can’t be finished. It’s too much,’” he mimics in exasperation. “The closer you get to the end, the clearer you see what’s left. That point is the most difficult.”
“There was a point in time when we thought the album would never be over.”

“As much as you think you have control over what you’re doing, most of the time you’re just tending to what the subject wants to become,” Silla chimes in, explaining the independence creative projects tend to assume. “That takes a varying amount of time, and you need to be humble about it. Some things take longer than others,” she continues. “It’s just a part of the process. You need to process all of this,” Silla highlights.

Similar to a sculptor chiselling away at a piece, slowly removing material than adding, múm works by loading their sonic canvas with immense amounts of components which they then painstakingly edit. “That’s probably the most amount of work,” Örvar confesses. “It’s like Prince removing the bass from ‘When Doves Cry,’” jokes Silla.

However, as strange as it seems, despite over two years of work, History of Silence’s linchpin came at the last minute.

“Most of what went behind this album happened during the last weekend before we handed it off. There were a bunch of things that we’d thought about – and even conflicts which hadn’t been resolved until the last two days, especially the final day. We just recorded a bunch of vocal tracks,” Örvar describes.

With Silla in Athens, Gyða in Reykjavík, and Örvar and Gunni mixing the album in Berlin, the two frontwomen coordinated harmonies and lyrics online in a matter of moments.

“It was a bit exciting,” Sigurlaug confesses. “It was so weird because of the distance.”

“This album needed to arrive over this period of time, and it had to be put on ice for some periods. And then it needed the attention of fresh ears, with new perspectives to be identified. And then it clicks. That’s when you understand it. But until then, you just have to be patient. You can’t hurry it,” Sigurlaug says calmly.

Carefully constructed, deconstructed, and recorded over multiple borders, History of Silence feels like an incredibly coherent album — something which came as a surprise to múm due to the members’ separation.

“It sounds like there’s a coherent artistic vision behind it,” Örvar says in disbelief. “It is coherent,” Róberta validates. “That’s what’s so weird!” Örvar replies.

Building on similar motifs as their previous work — those of innocence and playfulness — the forthcoming LP simultaneously sounds like a brand new approach to the band’s characteristic indietronica.

“It has its own voice which differs from the other albums,” Silla adds. “And none of us are responsible for that. It just came on its own,” Örvar continues.

Known for their quiet, almost wispy songwriting, múm play with opposing extremes of muted instrumentation and dynamic, sharp turns of percussion.

“Miss You Dance” opens the album with a brooding electronic drum beat, slowly giving way to colours of piano, strings and synthesisers which, one by one, seem to peek out of the soundscape. Two minutes in, Örvar’s distinctive voice cuts through, quickly joined by the chorus of Silla and Gyða.
“On this record…there is more distinctive songwriting going on. This is probably the first time we do it that way, sharpied on a piece of paper.”

At times, it seems as if múm is consciously playing around with their celebrated brand of soft-spokenness. Reflected in the title, some songs feature its lead singer almost straining to maintain a delicate balance between whispering and carrying the melody, as Gyða demonstrates on “Kill the Light”.

“Avignon” starts with a muted piano melody that could have been nicked from an Aldous Harding composition. It plays and pauses, continuously hiding and showing itself through the song.

Compared to their previous work, History of Silence feels like a much more well-rounded, structured piece of compositions. It includes múm’s signature openness and interplay between members, but songs’ integrity is never sacrificed for that liberty. As Örvar explains, some parts were created on the fly.

“All of the surface layer, ideas or lyrics or stuff, that just comes as we go,” he says. “The only notion we wanted for the album was to make a band album. That was a real concept. We tried setting up in the studio and wanted to play all of us at the same time, and it almost never happened,” he smiles.

“On this record, as opposed to other albums, there is more distinctive songwriting going on,” Örvar says of the comparison. “There are fewer songs which just float along. This is probably the first time we do it that way, sharpied on a piece of paper,” he says.

“But it comes across like a band album,” Róberta replies. “Even though it’s not recorded like that.” She reminisces about one of the band’s rehearsals. “Sometimes we cut out the playback, sometimes not. But it worked perfectly in a room together. Something magical happened, even though there wasn’t this big soundscape going on. So I think it stands as [a band album], even though the methodology was different.”

“When you remove any kind of backing tracks, it becomes much more entertaining to perform because the listening within the band becomes better,” Silla explains. “The ears open up and the brain receives it differently,” she finishes.

“That’s an important point,” Róberta adds. “That’s what keeps it alive and keeps people on their toes, resulting in this living phenomenon.”

Despite the condensed nature of the album — where silence is admired — History of Silence packs maximalist string arrangements, recorded by the Akureyri-based SinfoNord. “It became something else entirely,” Silla says.

As the three describe it, the symphonic session unexpectedly fell into múm’s hands, meaning that quick and decisive action was needed. In a very ‘00s Icelandic fashion, they contacted Ingi Garðar Vífilsson — a friend of the band and Reykjavík’s 2025 Citizen of the Year — who happened to be on his way to Akureyri for his son’s football match.

“He was with his kid at this football cup during the day, and he was arranging strings in his RV at night. He didn’t sleep that weekend. Then he conducted the orchestra on that Sunday. It was a risky scene,” Örvar describes.

BFFs

Even though it almost feels like a cliché, múm’s foundation is the close friendship shared by its members. In addition to the spiritual and physical need to create, múm’s existence is based on two primary factors: the close ties between its members and technology.

“It’s about doing something with your friends,” Örvar states simply. Róberta speaks up. “I think it’s open music,” she ponders. “Even though it’s in a pop context, there’s always space for creativity — especially during our live sessions. Performances are different with múm. More often than not, we’re never playing the same thing over and over again. I couldn’t be bothered to do this if that wasn’t the case. I couldn’t imagine getting onstage and playing a song the same way as I did 20 years ago. That would be a challenge,” she stresses.

In terms of múm’s technological aspect, Örvar argues that the band was originally founded around technology. “We decided to purchase a Nord Rack 2 synthesiser together and put it on a two-year instalment plan,” Örvar reminisces. “The band was founded based on that piece of technology,” he states.

“There’s always a light feeling regarding the use of technology,” Róberta ponders. “Sometimes it’s a joke, but it never becomes dogmatic or heavy. [The music] stands independently when the technology is removed, but it’s an element that can be inserted,” she continues.
“We purchased a Nord Rack 2 synthesiser together and put it on a two-year instalment plan.”

“Then there’s all kinds of more obscure effects, like the ability to be able to record in separate parts of the world at the same time. Which isn’t really sexy, but still allows us to do stuff which we couldn’t previously do,” she points out.

“That’s a very good point,” Örvar replies. “This album could never have been made without the proximity and the need to be together.”

Following the release of History of Silence on September 19, múm embark on a three-month tour into the band’s new era, including an Iceland Airwaves Partner Event in Reykjavík next November.

“We’re very excited about this next chapter,” Örvar confesses. “We’ve become so good at being together.” Róberta sighs. “I’m terrified yet excited,” she breathes. “I care for the togetherness,” Silla remarks. “Now that we’ve spent this time apart, I’m looking forward to spending time with my favourite people.”

While countless bands are formed of the same friendship múm experience, few are actually able to maintain the amicable relationship. It’s refreshing to hear the three talk about their mutual love, which endures after decades of collaboration. Múm have never lost sight of their core values, rather turning it into their strength and transcending traditional notions of the band form.

“We’re very lucky to have this,” Silla admits. “It becomes better every time we meet,” she says. “Especially having been together for so long and having experienced numerous things together. It becomes like a family,” Örvar concludes.

Múm’s seventh LP History of Silence is out on September 19 via Morr Music in physical and digital formats. Following the release, múm embark on a three-month tour of North America and Europe. Additionally, they’ll perform at an Iceland Airwaves Partner Event on November 9, 2025. Single-night tickets are available at tix.is. For more information regarding their tour and album, visit morrmusic.com.

Editor’s note: The interviews featured in this piece were conducted in Icelandic and translated by the author.