I've tried every which way to find the appeal of these guys, concluding with seeing them last night with a packed house giving off a religious fervor about them. Just not my thing
By Chad Swiatecki
I’ve never been the church-going type - baptized Catholic and jumped the tracks soon after - but in my former life as a daily newspaper reporter I spent plenty a Sunday morning in the pews for newsworthy religious services across the whole spectrum of denominations. High-profile funerals, politicians stumping before elections, final worship at a historic church that was closing, those types of things.
I always liked working a story involving a Baptist congregation. Those were rock ‘n’ roll with robes and a collection plate and had the guts that made me admit to myself, “If I ever become a believer, this is the house for me.” Think of the James Brown-as-a-pastor scene in “The Blues Brothers,” only with no trace of Hollywood buffoonery. It’s why I’ve said with some frequency that the post-Sept. 11 service at El-Bethel Evangelistic Baptist Church in Flint, Mich. is one of the best live performances I’ve ever seen in coming up on two decades of going to concerts. Didn’t matter that it wasn’t a proper concert - the passion and intensity was so undeniable, you felt something profound that day that stayed with you even if you’re a flatline cynic like me.
The services I dreaded the most? Pentecostals, no question. Dry as old toast, I’d gulp down a couple mugs of coffee beforehand to stay alert, and even then had to catch myself from staring as I looked at rows of face-forward, wide-eyed believers taking in every syllable in a sanctuary so aggressively quiet that a pin dropping would’ve sounded like a hammer. Nice, helpful and caring folks, every one of them, but it just took vastly different spiritual voices to move us. As long as we accepted that schism everything was fine - and most did, especially since as a reporter I had no personal stake - but every so often I’d run into a churchgoer who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer and wouldn’t rest until I’d thought hard (or pretended to) about joining the flock. Those run-ins were enough to turn me back off and look askance at the whole lot of them.
All of that said to get to this; Fleet Foxes live are like a Pentecostal megachurch service. From up top at Stubb’s on Tuesday night, the sold-out, rain-dampened crowd was marked by a sea of wide, anticipating eyes atop mouths yelling “I love you!” to lead singer/guitarist Robin Pecknold before he’d even picked up his instrument. And once the whole six-piece band started in with their double helix vocal harmonies and mountain folk accompaniments there weren’t many in the house not singing rapturously along with “Mykonos,” “Tiger Mountain Peasant” or any of the roughly 20 songs on the set list.
By this point it should be obvious that Fleet Foxes aren’t at the podium in my rock ‘n roll house of worship (I’m a Saint Joe Strummer man, always have been) but Tuesday night was my attempt at trying to get right with the hordes of true believers I’ve encountered since the Seattle band broke big a couple years ago, only to be mostly unmoved and confused by the devotion every time I’ve strapped on the headphones and later be called a borderline heretic when I responded with an “I don’t get it.” Live they definitely had their moments, there’s no denying that; “Your Protector” came with lots of added menace the band lacks on record, and there’s no denying the power of “White Winter Hymnal” once the four vocal parts lock in and keep lifting each other higher higher higher. After those passages the rattling cheers provided by the crowd weren’t just understandable, but natural and obvious.
But most of the rest left me with the same feeling I’ve had from the start with this band; pretty and created with utmost care and passion but coming up too short in the “guts” department for me to do much more than nod along politely. About an hour in it was pretty clear that this is a band too far for me so I headed to a prior engagement down the block, glad I’d made the effort to see the light and alright with the fact that it just doesn’t want to shine on me. If it’s your thing then have at it, but please don’t get uptight and defensive (as seems to happen with this band - a lot) to those who politely say “Thanks, but no.” We’ve got different sermons to take in, and some of them sound a lot more like what you get at Stubb’s Sunday gospel brunch.
_________________ Kwame Kilpatrick texted to his mistress: "NEXT TIME, JUST TELL ME TO SIT DOWN, SHUT UP, and DO YOUR THING! I'm fucked up now!"
|