1. Fleet Foxes - Fleet Foxes

Back in Feb there was an unmistakable buzz surrounding Fleet Foxes and teaser EP Sun Giant. When I heard the first few seconds of hymnal bliss of its title track on MySpace, I knew Fleet Foxes would end up being one of my favourite bands. One always fears a case of flavour of the month syndrome, especially in music that sounds as intimately familiar as Fleet Foxes', and there were periods where their debut LP's brilliance was overshadowed by more "fun" and "exciting" albums (and there was a plethora of those this year).. but it's been six months since Fleet Foxes, and about a year since I first heard them; and I still remember how my jaw dropped on that warm June 21st. Over the past year I've recommended the band to friends more often than any other act since The Arcade Fire, and I've been reaching for their colourful, well-worn CD sleeve more often than any others. This puts Fleet Foxes rather comfortably as my favourite album of 2008.
The band's sound has been praised and analyzed by writers far more insightful than I; and in fact I feel inadequete to comment on music as steeped in Americana as this. Aside from the unavoidable comparisons to folk rock supergroup Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, critics have name-dropped a host of influences from Brian Wilson (The Beach Boys-like block harmonies) to Fleetwood Mac (the suite-like classic rock meets folk interplay of Ragged Wood) to Robert Plant (there's more than abit of Kashmir-esque sorrow and wild abandon on Your Protector). With such a rich and diverse group of influence, one might expect Fleet Foxes to sound a tad contrived or indulgent. But restraint is at the forefront here, a subtle, adept mastery of songcraft which distills their lush soundscapes into 3-4 minutes pop songs. The most prominent component is obviously the band's pastoral vocal harmonies. In particular, chief songwriter Robin Pecknold has a pristine, confident voice, and is equally comfortable letting out a passionate bellow as he is nestling in the confines of his bandmates' voices. This sense of dynamics is further complemented by the quiet, unassuming, yet integral guitar work of close friend Skye Skjelset. These two elements form the backbone of majority of Fleet Foxes, although its best songs combine these with a supple but never overbearing dose of piano and drums.
Pecknold writes in the album credits of the "transportative power of music", and that's exactly what's present on Fleet Foxes - the band takes you across riverbeds by the cool of the setting sun, through dense forests echoing with the nightingale's song, over the expanse of plainlands teeming with life, and up hills and mountains toward the light of the new dawn. Isolating headphones and closing of eyes optional. Supported by lyrical references to meadowlarks, blue ridge mountains, streams, rising suns and wilderness, the vivid imagery elaborates majestic, sweeping songs which remarkably retain the intimacy of the Seattle basement they were written in. This is the splendour of a land of medieval times, of bygone eras, an echo of Eden that will haunt us in dreams to come. The flawless production of Phil Elk (The Shins, Built to Spill, Band of Horses) plays an essential role in achieving this magic, imbueing the voices and instruments with mountainous reverb, strongly reminiscent of My Morning Jacket's Z. But whereas MMJ's reverb-drenched album harkened apocalyptic dystopia, Fleet Foxes resounds with a natural, earthly timbre and clarity.
Despite the above qualities, Fleet Foxes transcends time and place, engendering a sense of adventure and discovery. They never rest on a single idea, beautiful as it may be, throughout a song - the band takes unexpected turns, yet on hindsight one can't imagine a more scenic detour. Strings, bells, and ivory keys roll about like cumulous clouds but they always feel precisely and carefully placed. Take breakthrough single White Winter Hymnal for example, a fireplace carousel which combines the band's rural evocation with a lyrical undercurrent of dark, dramatic melancholy - "Michael you would fall and turn the white snow red as strawberries in the summertime". The words may fail - they do often feel as though they're simply a vehicle for Pecknold and co to showcase their breathtaking voice-and-guitar counterpoint - but the feelings stick. A few years ago I might have begrudged an "indie" band for making it big-time in such a manner - their music blasting from stereos which also play the likes of Nickelback and Mariah Carey - but in the wake of such elegant, austere "baroque pop", I realize that in a year of such frenetic dissolution, this is truly essential music that the world simply needs to hear.

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so goes the backing track of all the sighs we ever sighed