Iceland looks like Newfoundland. Another island. Black rocks. Isolation. Maybe that’s it. Or maybe maybe Olafur Arnalds, Arnor Dan, and Magnuss Leifsson reached something here that doesn’t need black rocks and loneliness to understand. Maybe it’s the old tales of draug’s vomit — foam on the water, sometimes found in secured boats — pointing to danger and necessary travel. Maybe it’s beauty. Is it enough for you?