Album Review

Listening to an album for the first time is a bit like dissecting a good dish at a restaurant. It’s a mystery that is unraveled bite by bite. Is that turmeric? Cumin? Sea salt scraped off cooled lava flows?

In a good dish, the parts make up such a wonderful whole that you don’t notice the stock that soaked the meat or the spices that gave it such a wonderfully unexpected punch. And albums should be the same way. Especially first ones. You could hear Joy Division in Interpol, but it didn’t take away from the overall sound.

Unfortunately, the Fleet Foxes’ influences are so prominent, their eponymous album is like a plate full of separate ingredients that can never make an original whole. In the center a pile of Neil Young. To the side sprinklings of America, Bob Dylan, and even some Grateful Dead. But the most damning part of the Fleet Foxes album is that it is almost an exact replication of Grizzly Bear’s 2006 release, Yellow House. I listened to both back to back and, apart from more layered instrumentations on the Fleet Foxes record, the two are almost indistinguishable. Pitchfork mentions the Grizzly Bear resemblance briefly but then goes on to say, “Such comparisons accompany the arrival of most young bands, but Fleet Foxes’ songs inhabit a very specific, very rural space that’s as much a product of how these songs are assembled as it is of how they sound.” True, except this rural space the Fleet Foxes inhabit has already been inhabited by much more groundbreaking and unique artists.

Music today is having a love affair with 1970’s Americana (and animal names, come to think about it), and I do love that the seventies in all its folk rock earnestness is finally getting its due. Bands like America have too long been ignored and the Fleet Foxes get the decade’s vibe just right. Even the liner notes capture a precious kitsch by concluding with, “Music is a weird and cosmic thing, it’s own strange religion for nonbelievers, and what a joy it is to make.”

I’m OK and you’re OK. Too bad this album isn’t.

That is not to say that record doesn’t taste good. Because it does. Especially in songs like “Quiet Houses,” a subdued yet upbeat pop song with tambourines and beautiful vocal harmonies. The Fleet Foxes have striking lyrics, plaintive and honest, which is perfectly punctuated by the Ventura Highway guitars. In “Ragged Wood” lead singer Robert Pecknold sings, “Tell me anything you want - any old lie will do - call me back - call me back to you.” And with the added twinge of Jerry Garcia in his sad voice, it’s one of the most successful moments of the album.

“Your Protector” is my favorite. The song speaks to an individuality that could pull the Foxes into their own sound. It brings out all of the band’s best qualities with sincere lyrics and a sparse beginning that builds into a booming and wonderfully creepy world highlighted by delicate hummings.

Unfortunately, the Fleet Foxes’ knack for verisimilitude thus far has been mistaken for originality, their technical aptitude for artistic vision. Pecknold nails the weird hollow pitch that Bob Dylan achieved on Nashville Skyline. He is a dead-on impersonator. But that’s the thing - I don’t want an accomplished impersonator. I want a band that takes a hint of this, a dash of that, and creates something unique. The Fleet Foxes need to go back to the kitchen and return with an album that is so deserving of the reviews it has received. And they need to thank Grizzly Bear for doing the prep work.