Thanks to the universally glowing reviews given to their just-released eponymous debut and the imprimatur of the influential Pitchfork, not to mention a widely-hailed SXSW appearance earlier this year, Fleet Foxes certainly had a lot to live up to. It’s fair to say that all expectations were exceeded on the night and the Seattle psych-folksters’ Irish debut will likely go down as one of those “you had to be there” nights on a par with Jeff Buckley’s appearance at the same venue all those years ago, or Arcade Fire’s epic 2005 Electric Picnic show.
It’s not difficult to figure out their appeal. The harmonies are heavenly, while the melodies are to die for. The soaring majesty of ‘White Winter Hymnal’ sounds just like its title, while ‘Mykonos’ has a beguiling, otherworldly charm. And while the Crosby, Stills & Nash, Iron & Wine and Band Of Horses comparisons are apt, there’s something indefinably different about them. Perhaps it’s the churchy, Gregorian-chant quality to some of the harmonies (e.g. ‘Sun Giant’). You wouldn’t be surprised if the monks of Glenstal Abbey were just as much an influence as The Beach Boys, The Byrds and Love.
Visually, they come across as unreconstructed hippies circa 1969, with few concessions to rock posturing and minimal between-song banter. They even sound-checked for several minutes before the opening number, oblivious to the audience bemusement. Frontman (if you can call him that) Robin Pecknold sat awkwardly on a stool, staring intently ahead, his face almost hidden by a tangle of hair and a Jesus beard, while the band members crowded together as close as their spine-tingling harmonies. The only concern now has to be whether they can ride out the hype, without compromising their uniqueness.