Fleet Foxes / Postcards

Fleet Foxes delivered one of the most magical and awe-inducing performances I’ve seen in years. But, first, the crowd had to get through Postcards, who instantly reminded me of the Organ, not only in their Joy Division-esque dark rock sound, but also in their sheer lack of chemistry, movement and stage charisma. Wielding a vast array of keyboards and guitars, the much bearded mountain men of Fleet Foxes looked quite at ease as they started to fill the room with their sweet, languid sound. Indeed, when Robin Pecknold and two other band-mates filled the room with their perfectly pitched three-part harmonies and shuffling reverb-drenched psychedelic-tinged folk, the world seemed to stop just a little. From that point forward, one was aurally kicking it through big sky country in an open-topped convertible. Not just sounding like early My Morning Jacket, they also take a note from their live playbook as these intimate songs on record get the widescreen treatment live, like on the magnificent "Drops In the River,” and, thus, you mostly just stand there with your jaw lodged in the floorboards. Really, not one bad song or note was struck. Even when Pecknold soloed on "Oliver James” he easily filled the room with his warm voice and manner. Though the headliners of the night had yet to step foot on the stage, my friends and I were so overcome by Fleet Foxes that it seemed the only recourse to keep such an experience in our minds was to leave immediately. So we did.