Fleet Foxes: Hammersmith Apollo

Robin Pecknold addresses the microphone as if under submission: hips forward, shoulders hunched back, features scrunched in earnest anxiety. For a man whose songs evoke wariness of success and stardom, it is a fitting posture. And for a band whose diffident stage presence is so ill-suited to grand arenas, he is the ideal front man.

Fleet Foxes sold out the 5,000 capacity Hammersmith Apollo three nights running, but you would think they were playing an open mic night at the Brixton Windmill. Each of the six band members performed dutifully and, it must be said, flawlessly, shifting position only occasionally to re-tune or exchange instruments. There is a charming self-effacement about their approach to performing a catalogue that has been so carefully crafted: as if they would rather not expose the constituent parts that contribute to their wholesome harmonies.

It is their distinctive sound that is the centre of attention here. There is no need for crowd-pleasing antics when a band’s musicianship is this good. Helplessness Blues, released last month as a follow-up LP to their breathlessly acclaimed eponymous debut, marks a progression in the band’s songwriting. Fleet Foxes literally wore its provincial aesthetic on its sleeve, with the album’s Bruegel artwork immediately signalling its rustic charm—a mood reinforced by song titles such as “Meadowlarks,” “Blue Ridge Mountains” and “White Winter Hymnal.” HB, however, is more confident in pursuing themes, both within songs and throughout the album, and Pecknold’s lyrics betray the anxieties of a young man dealing with talent, success, heartbreak and the fear of obsolescence.

The set holds together, though; the band thankfully haven’t abandoned a winning formula in favour of sophomore experimentalism. “Montezuma,” the impressive opening cut of HB, morphs seamlessly into the first record’s “He Didn’t Know Why,” while the uplifting immediacy of the melodic “Mykonos,” from their 2008 Sun Giant EP, complements the brooding and reflective mood of recent offerings. There is the odd off-key moment. “Lorelai,” a harmony-laden, angst-ridden ballad, sounds like a Fleet Foxes parody, and is uncannily similar to Bob Dylan’s “4^th Time Around” (itself a parody of The Beatles’ “Norwegian Wood”). But the charming bucolic imagery remains. The album’s title track, a rollicking set-closer about seeking purpose in life, culminates in a pastoral fantasy that Pecknold could have lifted from a Steinbeck novella: “If I had an orchard / I’d work ’til I’m sore / And you’d wait on tables and soon run the store.”

For all this rural whimsy, Fleet Foxes are not anchored in nostalgia. Their varied influences (such as Crosby Stills & Nash, Love, The Band and Fleetwood Mac) can be easily traced, but their music is no pastiche. In this month’s Prospect, Kate Mossman argued that, unlike their American counterparts, British bands overlook musicianship in their eagerness to evince a worthy musical inheritance or an authentic social "voice." Fleet Foxes music could never have been created in such a self-conscious scene. They hail from the Pacific northwest, such a fertile breeding ground for alternative guitar music, but their expansive sound is so rootless that it encompasses a range of traditions in American music. Their live performance reaffirms the suspicion that what matters to them is not the scene from which they emerged, or the stage from which they play, but the music they create.

Perhaps this explains why they are so widely and easily appreciated. Selling out theatre venues several times over is no mean feat for a band so averse to putting on a spectacle. But they are committed to their craft, and the audiences can’t have been disappointed with the perfectly executed harmonies. And in some respects you can understand Pecknold’s reticence in front of the microphone and the multitudes. His band’s naturalist sound is, if anything, at odds with being amplified to a remote and faceless crowd. It deserves an intimate context and an appreciative audience for a band that eschews stage presence and lets the music speak for itself.