Fleet Foxes

Turning Skeptics Into Believers

originally published September 24, 2008

In the stagnant, unremitting heat of some anonymous August afternoon in Athens, upon traversing through the woods that separate the grocery store from my home, I caught myself swept up in a fantastical lie after receiving the phone call of a purported Bigfoot discovery in the North Georgia mountains. Initially, my reliably cynical instincts told me that something was rotten in Denmark, but soon enough my passions were aroused beyond their usual state of comprehension upon seeing the video footage confirming the sightings that were apparently newsworthy enough to interrupt the Olympic games.

Moments later, I’ve got Fleet Foxes’ Casey Wescott over the phone choking on his own words. “Do you realize what this means?… This ends all debate between the skeptics and believers!” It felt cheap to introduce our acquaintanceship with such sensationalism, but somehow the conversation (which proved to be much more exciting than the rote Q&A that would ensue) seemed apt given the band’s sudden exposure and their geographic ode to the aforementioned region, “Blue Ridge Mountains.” For conversation’s sake, I’d found myself swallowing down the whole exchange with a healthy dose of cognitive dissonance: if artists lie in order to tell the truth, so do journalists. Thankfully, I’m just a music fan.

In more ways than one, I would soon discover that there was more to this investigation than meets the eye. Despite what seems like abrupt career success, the band had been at work for two years before completion of their debut LP, Fleet Foxes, creating a work of staggering genius beyond just another spontaneous phenom of the blogosphere. So, if you’re like me and have been tuned into all of the Fleet Foxes hype, don’t buy into the hearsay, or go chasing Bigfoot - listen for yourself. The band’s kaleidoscopic blend of Appalachian folk, baroque pop and SoCal harmonies is just as elusive as an 800-pound, seven-foot gorilla-man.

As an endangered species, Fleet Foxes are not the type of band to follow the pack. “Heard Them Stirring” is an instrumental interlude that flows freely from one moment to the next, capturing the essence of The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds title track with the addition of sacred motet-like harmonies. The overall effect will likely lead you to the same logical conclusion: if CSNY, America and The Beach Boys were avatars in some bizarre 17th-century remake of the Final Fantasy RPG video game series (of which the soundtracks Fleet Foxes lead man Robin Pecknold has been known to cite as a major influence) where the characters miss their connecting flight over Tennessee and end up befriending The Shins and My Morning Jacket, they would likely watch the sunrise together just to pass the time, and after deciding to collaborate from the sheer profundity of it all - churn out something akin to the Fleet Foxes. The somber romanesca strumming of “Tiger Mountain Peasant Song” sounds strikingly similar to “Greensleeves,” except rather than wallowing about unrequited love, Pecknold pontificates on the premonition of his own death. These otherworldly visions are more than a hobby for the group’s singer/songwriter, which become a lyrical thread throughout the album: “In the quivering forest/ where the shivering dog rests/ I will do it, grandfather/ Wilt to wood and end” Pecknold resonates from the mountainous chasms of his vocal chords on “Blue Ridge Mountains.” Unfolding like a musical choose-your-own-adventure, the track progresses from an Allman Brothers' “Midnight Riders"-esque ballad to a ritualistic peasant dance that pulses alongside jittery folk melodies via Wescott’s piano doubled by Skyler Skjelset’s contemplative mandolin.

All allusions aside, there’s something about the fact that the band’s music possesses so little in common with anything familiar that makes it so alluring. In their adopted Seattle music den, the only thing Fleet Foxes share with the Seattle of the '90s is their occasional flannel shirts. The lively Bruegel peasant painting that graces the LP’s cover adds an air of nostalgia to the album’s already pastoral qualities, inspiring listeners to long for a home that’s far removed from our own historical amnesia. It all boils down to the classic search for authenticity - an ongoing search for a unique, albeit accessible sound that lies beyond immediate grasp of category. “I’m inspired by life,” Wescott says. “Our intention is merely to communicate an idea to the audience,” he reiterates, sounding like a lofty professor of a graduate music composition course.

In the studio and onstage, the band relies entirely on the “primitive elements” of acoustic instrumentation, while shying away from quantized, cut-and-paste performances that would tend to produce anything less desirable (or more predictable) than a fleeting moment. There’s an almost tangible dialogue going on here. A sum-total of the band’s musical parts that amounts to something greater than mere rehashed folk revival. In a sense, Fleet Foxes have opened a space for folk music in the same way that Sigur Rós created a glacial rift in the fabric of musical space-time. Somewhere after losing yourself in 10th listen of the album, you’ve become utterly convinced that if a tree were to fall in the forest, and nobody was there to hear it, it would unwittingly reproduce the sound of Fleet Foxes, and Bigfoot might even be there as witness. We’d never know…

Jump to a week later. News reports confirm that the Bigfoot “discovery” was nothing but a giant rubber Halloween costume in a box of ice. Rubber. Thanks, CNN. This shouldn’t have come as a shock, but for some reason it was entirely disappointing. Sometimes the truth and the desire to believe in something don’t feel all that different. In a state of numbness, we’ll even opt for the lie over the truth, so long as it feels right. “Lie to me if you will at the top of Beringer Hill/ Tell me anything you want, any old lie will do/ Call me back to you,” Pecknold yearns to his beloved in “Ragged Wood,” in spite of his better judgment, proving that maybe Pecknold and I aren’t all that different. Alas, all Bigfoot speculation has now been replaced by a fully-fledged belief in Fleet Foxes. Fresh off a tour with indie-rock veterans Wilco, news reportings now predict sightings of Fleet Foxes on Sept. 30 at the Georgia Theatre, and this is the kind of hearsay that forms a lasting impression.

Ryan Monahan

WHO: Frank Fairfield, Fleet Foxes
WHERE: Georgia Theatre
WHEN: Tuesday, Sept. 30
HOW MUCH: $10