There seem to be a cornucopia of bands named after itinerant mobs of mammals these days, with the bulk of these musical acts hailing from Seattle-based indie rock label Sub Pop Records (see: Wolf Parade, Foals, Wolf Eyes, etc.), but Fleet Foxes’ transcendentalist paeans actually seem at home in Shakespeare’s mystical Forest of Arden.
The Seattle band’s sound is like a melodic mélange of other alt-country acts, including Sub Pop labelmates The Shins and Band of Horses, with a sprinkling of Animal Collective’s innovative instrumentalism. Its recent self -titled debut LP Fleet Foxes sounds like an ethereal collection of bonfire sing-alongs, and at the band’s show at famed Lower East Side venue The Bowery Ballroom, the sold-out crowd chanted in unison to every single joyous ditty.
Fleet Foxes are a quintet that describe their music as “baroque harmonic pop jams,” and have drawn comparisons to classic outfits like the Beach Boys and CSNY, with their heavy emphasis on three- and four-part harmonies producing beautiful, symphonic swells reminiscent of a pietistic church choir.
After releasing a pair of blog-approved EP’s - Fleet Foxes and Sun Giant - the group’s self-titled debut album arrived to much critical acclaim, including a 9.0 rating by indie Bible Pitchfork, and a 4-star rating in the increasingly irrelevant music mag Rolling Stone. The album has been hailed as one of, if not the finest debut albums of the year, and this reviewer is in complete and utter agreement with this critical consensus.
One word to describe the night’s performance would be: courageous. Lead singer Robin Pecknold, his greasy, Jesus-like hair obscured by a wool hat belying the 80-degree temperature outside, was nursing a terrible cough. In between songs, Pecknold would often turn to his side and engage in a painful-looking fit of coughing, before guzzling water by the bottle-full. In fact, Mr. Pecknold had a veritable smorgasbord of approximately ten water bottles flanking his left side. He struggled through the first song “Sun Giant” - a soft, a cappella ode to the changing seasons, but by the time the band reached the third tune, the aptly-titled “White Winter Hymnal,” the band - and Pecknold’s pipes - were firing on all cylinders. As with “White Winter Hymnal”’s startlingly beautiful portrait of a pack of schoolchildren treading through the snow, many of Fleet Foxes’ tunes reference various landscapes, such as the mandolin and piano-accompanied “Blue Ridge Mountains.”
Even though fame ha s come quickly for Fleet Foxes, the band is far from jaded; they seemed genuinely surprised and slightly baffled by their spirited fanbase. Throughout the 50-minute set, Pecknold repeatedly gave thanks to the crowd and, after one particularly loud burst of applause, uttered “Whoa!” with a deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. Alone on the stage, Pecknold closed with the acoustic ballad “Tiger Mountain Peasant Song.” His body bathed in celestial light amid a sea of darkness, Pecknold delivered Fleet Foxes’ majestic songs like some sort of veiled prophet; their full and atmospheric sound almost as effervescent as the Bruegel painting that graces their album’s cover.
--Marlow Stern [July 22, 2008]
