Seattle-based Fleet Foxes performed at the El Rey Theatre in downtown Los Angeles on Sept. 23, kindly giving a chance to those of us who couldn’t get to their sold-out show the day before. Four friends and I, show enthusiasts that we are, braved the sardine feel of a less-than-roomy pickup truck during the long drive.
Right when I thought I might die of compression, we arrived safely at the El Rey, sprinting to will call joyfully. Once inside, we perused the merch table, commenting on the interesting trend of indie bands to put out LPs. Still waiting for the show, we moved out onto the floor, trying — with many others — to inconspicuously scoot closer to the stage. The small venue was ideal for the folksy atmosphere that was created the moment the curtain went up.
The opening act was a character by the name of Frank Fairfield. Alone on the stage in a folding chair, he held the crowd captive with bluegrass ditties that belong on the “O Brother, Where Art Thou?” soundtrack. Dressed like a young boy at a Sunday school in Kansas, he wore his squeaky clean side part with confidence. Screwing up his face tighter than the strings on his banjo, he plucked vigorously and wailed about everything from the four seasons to legendary John Henry. Six songs later, he left the stage as unceremoniously as he had arrived, with banjo, guitar and violin in tow.
At long last, Fleet Foxes took the stage — welcome news to an audience that had been waiting two hours to see them. They opened with a beautiful a cappella rendition of “Sun Giant,” showcasing the beautiful harmonies that put them on every music blogger’s “ones to watch” list. This trend continued with favorites like “White Winter Hymnal” and “Mykonos.” Lead vocalist Robin Pecknold also pulled a couple of solo songs, including one of my personal favorites, “Oliver James.”
It was almost impossible to decide which made the show best: the gorgeous combination of vocals, or the banter with each other and the audience between songs. I have a special admiration for musical artists who also know how to crack a joke. Honestly, how many stand-up comedians can pick out a decent folk riff?
I’m always enjoyed tracking the evolution of “scene fashion,” and I’m especially fascinated by a recent merge of indie with hillbilly. Every one of Fleet Foxes’ five members wore a button-up shirt, with most opting for a muted plaid pattern. Drummer J. Tillman even poked fun at the band’s unassuming get-ups, claiming, “I forgot to wear my sequin flannel.” Skinny jeans were rampant — among the audience members and crew as well as the musicians — and the whole place looked like a meeting of Bearded Men Anonymous. All in all, a very relaxed, southern feel. No wonder someone yelled “Free bird!” in the middle of their set.
Listening to the recordings of their songs after the fact, I can honestly say that it doesn’t do them justice. Buy their album, yes, but please see them live. Trust me — it’s worth every minute squashed in the back of a pick up.
