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Seattle folk heroes squeeze the last few drops from their debut album
Question. Do bands become too big too quick these days? Are they allowed the space to breathe, grow, find their feet any more? Are we too quick to devour the latest thing and move on? Yeah I know that's three questions. But a quick glance at any gig listings will throw up a whole slew of bands who, this time last year, were still playing to their mums, dads and mates at (insert own local flea-pit), now playing venues like the Apollo. And if Fleet Foxes aren't quite in that league, nonetheless, it's not much more than a year since they were second on the bill to Elbow at Manchester's Academy. And here they are, thrown in front of a packed, sold-right-out-months-ago Apollo. In any case, this short UK tour provides opportunity for a final breeze through their critically adored debut set before they disappear and ponder the eternal question. How do we follow that?
So, as the psychedelic intro tape whirls around and around, there's definitely an air of heavy expectancy and sure enough, as Fleet Foxes shamble onto the stage, Manchester erupts. And Fleet Foxes slam into their first tune with resultant gusto. Er...except they don't. They spend minutes, interminable minutes, tuning their guitars. Don't you guys have roadies? There's a mumbled tribute from frontman Robin Pecknold to local legend Roy Harper. Yeah - nice, guys, nice. Can we have some music please? People shift, drift, chatter, focus on the band gone. An overly long prologue finally morphs into 'Sun It Rises', and Manchester turns back to Fleet Foxes and erupts once more. Although whether this is a demonstration of appreciation or just goddamned relief will never really be clear. And Fleet Foxes, as they will for most of the evening, wear the expressions of Startled Rabbits. So I refer you to my initial question.
Now, we can't discuss Fleet Foxes without reference to The HarmoniesTM. Fleet Foxes have harmonies every bit as perfect as any other proponent of the art you'd care to mention. Beach Boys? Yep. Crosby, Stills and Nash? Absolutely. Peters and Lee? Hell, yeah. But my god, Fleet Foxes like you to know it. Pretty much every song has some kind of breakdown of choral, melismatic oooohning and aaaahing. It's a beautiful sound, for sure. But in e-ver-y single song?
OK, so... so far, so meandering. The guitarist plays his guitar with a violin bow, a la Jimmy Page and you can't help but wish for a bit of Zep-style rock n' roll action. And yes, I do know that's missing the point of Fleet Foxes entirely. But the whole thing's got the feel of a Friday night jam round at Robin's. And then Fleet Foxes finally pull the (startled) rabbit out of the bag. "White Winter Hymnal" brings everything into sharp focus. "Yay" says Manchester. Something to sing along to. Something to shake a leg to. Three beardy stage invaders turn out to be members of support band Blitzen Trapper, shaking maracas with indecent zeal. "Your Protector" provides chance for Manchester to accompany Fleet Foxes, who in turn prove that they're capable of whipping up a storm of thumping drums and thundering guitars. Pecknold strums the opening bars to 'Tiger Mountain Peasant Song', but Manchester's decided it'd like a chat again. The purists in the crowd aren't having that, oh no, and police it with some forceful shushing. As John Motson might have it, the rest of the song is 'immaculately observed', Pecknold responding with a spellbinding rendition. Think Kurt Cobain's scratchy guitar sound on 'Unplugged' but with the voice of an angel. Unfortunately, this is the cue for shushing before every subsequent song, which lends an unnecessary edge that shouldn't be there for a Fleet Foxes gig (there's one lone dissenting female voice; "I won't f**king shush!").
The main portion of the show closes with 'Mykanos', probably the closest Fleet Foxes get to conventional pop, by the end the crowd hollering along with the "You go wherever you go today" refrain (erm...shush, no?). Pecknold returns alone for the start of the encore. Disconcertingly, he whips the lead out of his guitar and perches himself at the lip of the stage. Oh god. He's going to do one completely unplugged. What if I sneeze? What if I cough? Please, please, please let my phone be on silent. It's testament (if a slightly self-indulgent one) to the sheer power of his voice and, given that he appears to have been swigging from mugs of voice restoring drinks all night, all the more of an achievement for that. Lead restored to guitar, stationed back behind microphone, Pecknold leads Manchester through a chorus of 'Oliver James' before the remaining Foxes, and assorted member of support bands, return for 'Blue Ridge Mountains', perhaps a distillation of all Fleet Foxes' strengths, all folksy whimsy and tub-thumping stomps. A strange evening then. It's fairly obvious that Fleet Foxes are less than comfortable bedfellows with the larger venue. But theirs is an honest show, free from pretence and production. Just don't go see them if you've got a lot to say...
Tags: fleet foxes matt rynn manchester apollo 360 degrees
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