Fleet Foxes bring a cold sermon to The Vogue

By Lliam Easterbrook
[contributor]

Vancouver hosted Fleet Foxes for two sold-out shows at the Vogue theatre on Friday, April 29 and Saturday, April 30. The Seattle sestet brought their folky acoustic sensibilities and soaring vocal harmonies north of the border, beginning their much anticipated Helplessness Blues tour. For us, their northern neighbours, it was a night to relax behind the rich folk tapestry that only Fleet Foxes can deliver, and I was lucky enough to snag a seat.

Fleet Foxes are something of an anomaly in today’s pop music world. They’ve been lauded by critics and fans alike for their self titled debut LP, and the preceding EP, Sun Giant. But their songs, all of which are written by singer Robin Pecknold, are not the usual pop fare (bombastically artificial, static, fluffy) — even by indie standards.

Pecknold’s lyrical approach on Fleet Foxes is romantic, sublime; he evokes images of hidden pastoral landscapes that are reminiscent of, say, a painting by Thomas Cole, lush in sentiment and colour –– anything but the formula for success that floats like oil on water in today’s music scene.

The Foxes’ second LP, Helplessness Blues (released May 3 via Sub Pop), is another step forward in the band’s evolution as songwriters, and they don’t deviate from their formula very much, but rather expand it.

And that’s not necessarily a bad thing; judging from the sold-out crowd on Saturday night, Fleet Foxes continue to develop a strong and devout following, playing for almost two hours for an eager and wistful audience, many of whom sang along to new and (at the time) unreleased songs. It seems safe to say that when you haven’t even released your album yet and your fans already know your songs in and out, you’ve hit a level of success that won’t soon evaporate.

But Pecknold and his band seemed shy — weary even, on Saturday night, like the success recently garnered to him and his band hasn’t allowed them any comfort in their own skin and the limelight.

His between-song dialague was sparse and sometimes forced — for instance, casually mentioning that he had a chance to see the Planetarium, but without any accompanying context.

And with a crowd that was respectful, encouraging and upbeat, Fleet Foxes seemed mostly solemn. Although they made exemplary use of the Vogue’s rich acoustics (acoustics I failed to notice last time seeing Motorhead), they failed to engage with their audience on a personal level, or bring us into their pastoral fold — inclusions the fans seemed eager to delve into.

For a band capable of allowing the listener a glimpse at transcendence through their passionate lyrics and sublime harmonies, Fleet Foxes felt more like a sermon that we, the audience, could not take part in, but rather sit back and enjoy.