2. Fleet Foxes, Helplessness Blues
Fleet Foxes were a welcome and justly celebrated mainstream breakout act in 2008, delivering that rare feat: a debut album that was totally assured and unique. Certainly the mellifluous harmonies invited name-checks from all-world acts ranging from Crosby Stills & Nash to Simon and Garfunkel.
A couple of years ago as I assessed what I considered to be the best 50 rock albums of the last decade, I had this to say about the Fleet Foxes:
On paper, it shouldn’t work. A bunch of young dudes milking the best elements of old-school rock and folk, full of ambition and self-consciously reverential toward the icons they are emulating (Neil Young, The Byrds, The Beach Boys, etc.). Sounds like a recipe for a strained, pretentious abomination. And the fact is, many other acts who don’t have the heart, talent or integrity to pull it off fail spectacularly. But few acts (aside from My Morning Jacket) are as obvious with what they are after, and who they have been inspired by, so the stakes are not inconsiderable.
In the case of Fleet Foxes, everyone knows how this one turned out. Their debut was one of the critical darlings of 2008 and they were one of the more discussed acts on the scene. And, kind of like Grizzly Bear in 2009, the hype was warranted and appropriate. More to the point, an album like this one epitomizes the inexorable conundrum of writing about sounds: ultimately, one just has to use their ears to understand. This fully successful debut promises bountiful riches we can expect from Fleet Foxes, but even if they never play another note, they’ve already made a magnificent, lasting document.
Bountiful riches, indeed.
I’ll admit it: I was hopeful but not necessarily optimistic when the follow-up, Helplessness Blues, hit the streets in May. Suffice it to say, there have been entirely too many acts this past decade who have made an impressive splash and then got pulled in under the weight of expectation and ambition or else scurry to the path of least resistance to get as many songs as possible played in commercials (the songs in question usually suck). So I was not merely surprised, I was genuinely astonished at how good this second album sounded. In fact, I could hardly stop listening to it and found myself wondering about the last time this happened and realizing it had been a long time.
Here, listen:
So…that pretty well speaks for itself. It has everything we loved about the debut: the irrepressible acoustic flourishes exploding into a boundless cycle of voices and instruments; the layered vocals that echo and comment, at once urgent and ecstatic. In fact, ecstasy may be the single word –and goal– that this work searches for and achieves: the ecstasy of living, the ecstasy (sometimes hard-won, other times effortless) of creation, and the ecstasy of sharing these findings. With so much self-conscious and joylessly ironic music being made these days, it is not only refreshing, but gratifying to behold a band that is unabashed about the pursuit of beauty.
It is apparent, literally from the opening notes of the first song, that the sophomore album is being approached with an even greater sense of ambition and purpose. Shooting this high, this soon, would frankly derail just about any lesser act, and our archives are full of second-album slumps that suffer from all manner of excess. “Montezuma” is a deceptively simple, straightforward tune, but upon closer inspection, we see that Robin Pecknold (the lyricist, singer and perfection-driven leader) is cleverly attempting to go big while scaling back: the instrumentation is sparse (but not simple) and the lyrics traverse subject matter that –in less capable hands– is frequently, if earnestly rendered as narcissistic navel-gazing. The harmonizing here, in addition to “merely” being astonishing, has a graceful intensity that sounds almost hymn-like; by the sheer emotional force of the voices the band turns one sensitive soul’s back-room confession into a cathedral of sound and feeling. The oft-cliched deathbed epiphany is rendered here with a succinct, devastating lack of pretense or evasion:
I wonder if I’ll see any faces above me/Or just cracks in the ceiling–nobody else to blame…
The lyrics and melodies attain (and remain at) elevated levels throughout, and as the album builds an impression similar to the debut –rich, ethereal, elegant– emerges. Only more so. Most of these songs are so fully and robustly developed they make much of the excellent first album (not to mention just about anything else on the scene these days) seem like sketches and snippets. Let’s just put it out there: even though comparisons (meant to compliment or take down a notch or three) have crept into the conversation, invoking heavy hitters like Cat Stevens, Simon & Garfunkel and CSN, it is not easy to name many songs by any of these acts that combine the vocal and musical proficiency demonstrated on songs like “Bedouin Dress”, “Grown Ocean” or, especially “The Plains/Bitter Dancer”. If their influences are obvious, so too is the fact that they have incorporated these elements into the cultivation of a sound that is impossible to categorize.
On the ostensibly lighter tunes, like “Lorelai” and “Sim Sala Bim”, or the stripped-bare acoustic “Blue Spotted Tail” and “Someone You’d Admire”, the band conveys mirth and anguish without coming off as cute or calculated. It’s an exceedingly difficult trick to pull off, but Helplessness Blues is honest and heartfelt (two words that usually invite if not oblige the use of snark) without being self-conscious or enamored with its own achievement. In fact, the free-jazz sax wailing that concludes “The Shrine/An Argument” is proof positive that the band can up the ante whilst simultaneously taking the piss out of themselves. (Let me know the last –if first– time you ever heard Radiohead or Wilco manage –or attempt– such a feat.)
I am happily, humbly in awe of what Pecknold & Co. have accomplished here. I usually am obliged to reserve that sort of awe for music made many decades ago, or by jazz musicians. This is art, being expressed by a young man who knows exactly what he was after, but is likely unaware of precisely how much talent and genius he is truly tapping into. It’s almost ridiculous to imagine what he will come up with next, or how he can conceivably match the work he’s done here. It’s certainly something to look forward to.
In any other year there is little doubt an album this remarkable would have easily snatched the number one slot. In fact, back in June I did make the following proclamation: I’m not going to hear a better album in 2011. (If you write about music you should always be wary about making statements like this, or at least save them for special occasions. Like this. Plus, it’s a bit of a win/win: if someone out there does make a better album than this, there is a hell of a lot to be celebrating, music-wise, in 2011.) As it happens, I’m thrilled to admit I was wrong, because the only thing that was less likely than Helplessness Blues not being the number one album was the possibility that somebody might make a better one. Against all probability, that is precisely what happened.
Stay tuned…
