Well the Big Moon was out tonight, meaning it was freakishly big and freakishly yellow. It was pretty much the best thing to hit the skies since, well the last time the Big Moon was out. Being a fan of all things lunar, I took the opportunity to sit out by the pool with a glass of whiskey and the Fleet Foxes album and moongaze.
I was a bit wary of Fleet Foxes at first. The comparisons to early-Jacket and Band of Horses left me a bit unsure, since I love/like both of these bands, I'd rather they not be endlessly re-hashed. I downloaded the album when it initially leaked, but never got around to listening to it until a few weeks ago. The 9!! rating that Pitchfork gave the album pushed me to actually getting around to it to see what the fuss was all about.
Well Fleet Foxes certainly passed the whiskey test. Being endlessly compared to My Morning Horses, I felt it necessary to indulge in grainy drinks while kicking it. My immediate reaction was, yes, this does remind me of MMJ/BOH. But while early Jacket reminds me of silent, southern fields at night, and Band of Horses reminds me of late-night autumn strolls, Fleet Foxes evoke a setting wholly unfamiliar to me. This is because I have never lived outside of Louisiana, and while it snowed once in New Orleans when I was 2, and it snowed one Christmas in the suburbs, it is safe to say that "winter" is a pretty alien concept.
Listening to Fleet Foxes, I get the feeling that I am huddled up by a campfire in the middle of some God-forsaken Siberian tundra. This would be an uninviting prospect, but Fleet Foxes are really fucking good. The fact that it reminds me of well, 40 degree weather, rather than Louisiana's stifling summer heat is an added bonus.
Their songs seem to take two shapes: A) Majestic winter snow-flurry spiral ("White Winter Hymnal" and "Quiet Houses") or B) Caterpillar-butterfly snow-flurry metamorphosis ("Blue Ridge Mountains" and "He Doesn't Know Why"). Each is wonderfully enchanting. The vocals and constant ringing of the guitars and piano match evenly to paint a picture of, you guessed it, winter out on the frozen tundra.
This is a phenomenal album, certainly one of my favorites of the year. And until I embark on a pilgrimage to Nepal or get exiled to Siberia, this will probably be as close as I will get to that curious season they call winter.
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