Am I capable of writing about music without referencing Eurovision? I guess not, especially if the band in question legitimately competed in a recent edition of my beloved song contest. By charming over 76,000 voters with an atmospheric blend of Nordic folk rock, Gåte won the 62nd Melodi Grand Prix, subsequently leading to their appearance at the Eurovision Song Contest 2024, representing Norway. Despite moving on from their allotted semifinal, the group placed dead last amongst the twenty-five finalists. The chaotic performance of their song "Ulveham" didn't impress international audiences or the professional jury, but it sure as hell made an impact on one American Eurofan, and the consensus among hardcore watchers is that Gåte was brutally robbed. After their undeserved flop, Gåte retreated to the forests of Norway for two years, finally reemerging with Sigil—a grander full-length to rekindle the sylvan aura they condensed and presented to over a hundred million people in just three minutes.
I like to think of Gåte like a wreath. The center is vocalist Gunnhild Sundli. Her vocalizations—whether singing or chanting—have an unmistakable inflection that drifts over each piece with both tenderness and command. When she dips down into her lower register, the atmosphere turns foggy, but when Sundli lifts her tones high she effortlessly clears the fog to reveal a lively forest. Her technique is perfect for this genre of folk rock, and probably the main reason for Gåte's longevity as a band. Adorning the surrounding area of the wreath are class-act musicians wielding an assortment of traditional instruments. Right-hand man Magnus Børmark plays guitar but also the Swedish nyckelharpa, drummer Jon Even Schärer handles all sorts of percussion, as well as a mouth harp, and Arent Todal tackles various stringed instruments. Further adding to the wreath (specifically to Sigil) is the legion of session artists. I may not be able to quickly discern Marit Aspås's cello from Olav Luksengård Mjelva's hardanger fiddle, but these instruments are key in creating the record's environment.
Don't expect these instruments to shred at full capacity. Sigil is a slow burner, churning atmospheres with crescendos rather than jamming out. Although the ambiances Gåte builds are splendid, not a single song runs over five minutes long. This hinders what these ten songs could be. The best pieces like "Strandvaskar" pull off heavy-hitting, successful climaxes, while others like "Nokon" spend too much time creating the liftoff for a climax. I adore the slow songs, especially the pairing of ballads ending the album, and now that the band is on a bigger label, a more digestible approach to their wizardry is expected. But if Gåte's mission is to conjure grand images of Nordic myths and legends, packing it all into three-minute chunks probably isn't the right way to go about it.