"...Fleeting Foxes?" puzzled the big man at security outside the Showbox. "Naw, I never heard of 'em, either," he finished with a laugh. Nice guy. But his job obviously didn't take him just 20 yards or so north, and east, where the crowd bracketed the block for two hours, at least, before the doors opened (late). There's proof in that thar pudding.
Despite knowing only slightly more about Fleet Foxes than that security guard, I could still tell this was a homecoming of an important band.
Ex-Deerhoof guitarist Chris Cohen took a short set. The everyman-Caucasian Cohen, armed with a Gibson SG favored by Angus Young. A professorial keyboardist oriented himself sideways to the crowd. A shy bassist spent most of the set with his back to the audience, turned three quarters to the drummerlike drummer. I couldn't make out any lyrics (young folks out there, cherish what you have, and, take it from me, you'll almost never understand lyrics at a show). But the songs, as structures, kept meandering off into intriguing terrain; proggy interplay with a veiled threat to the lassitude, something not quite being said, and you were supposed to figure it out. I wish I'd had enough to time to try harder. Robin Pecknold—wearing a knit cap—came out to help on one song and there was much rejoicing.
Another way I could tell the Fleet Foxes were important was the smoke. Lots and lots o' smoke. And also the pre-recorded voice of a guy with an English accent (was he supposed to be famous?) telling everybody to please not record the show even a little tiny bit. The voice was nice enough about it, at least. One problem, though: Denied cell phones and denied lighters, probably due to fire codes prohibiting open flames in such palaces. How then to rock out side-to-side when the power ballad sing-alongs come along?
Fleet Foxes' solution: Turn everything into a sing-along! They're part warped folk music, anyway, so a 'round-the-campfire vibe without the requirement of fire comes naturally to them.
Pecknold, Christian Wargo, and Skyler Skjelset switched out acoustic and electric and hollow-bodied guitars so fast between tunes I was looking for skidmarks in the fabric of reality (through the smoke). Casey Wescott hid behind his upright piano mostly, but caught an axe here and there to keep honest. Two itty-bitty synths, the kind Devo like, got some plunking.
Shockingly enough you could actually understand a fair portion of the lyrics, through all the plucking, plus Crosby Stills Nash & Young harmonies, though the mix didn't favor my immediate-favorite Fox, Mr. Morgan Henderson, a one-time punk rocker (see: the Blood Brothers) in a knit cap; and who himself juggled tambourine, maracas, bowed bass, flute, euphonium (unless that was a baritone horn), and a bass clarinet skronked to recall Japanese avant-jazz saxophonist Kaoru Abe... or at least Captain Beefheart. As for the tour drummer, given that their last drummer changed his name to Father John Misty and blew up bigger than his old mates... maybe this new guy gets paid to keep his name under his hair.
This was a homecoming, so, a celebration. Smiles, cheers, a baby strapped to mommy's chest, complete with baby-sized ear protectors. Wholehearted instead of terribly lusty shouts of "We love you!" Young faces, men with beards, knit hats, but few stringent hipsters—could they be going the way of the goths?
Chris Cornell's exit obviously hung over things. Nevertheless, several hundred people immersed themselves in the hometown boys' comeback. The new heroes, conquering. And the new heroes don't blow up the roof and run out on the dinner check. They take their CSN&Y over Sabbath, and if soft rock's coming back un-ironically (prog, bubblegum, and hair metal having already taken redemption from the altar), they'll grab their 16 six-strings and surf. I'm not enough of a grouch to begrouch anybody that much.
I'll never know that baby's name, nor its mother's. I hope 30 years from now they smile over this Friday night.
