Fleet Foxes in Fresno

Fresno is drinking a cup of white zin in those pastel plastic lawn chairs on your cemented square of a backyard in the sun. It is minivans moseying down the residential streets, which could probably fit at least four cars side by side, occupied by soley the driver. And it is miles and miles of poop brown or "desert tan" colored houses with the exact same dimensions and trimmings and the exact same annoying dwarf mongrel barking at you through the window. It is not hell to me anymore, it is what it is. A time warp, back to leave it to beaver, but with modern gadgets like a gps system and cell phone head set which may or may not be utilized moreso than the brain cells in a person's head.

It is here that is have rediscovered my affinity for myspace and technological entertainers such as this. For me, Fresno is sitting at my mom's high speed computer and listening to amazing new bands all day long on myspace and youtube and fantasizing about smoking weed upon my return to the Bay Area (shockingly, I have been in california for an entire week and still haven't smoked yet) . At the moment, the Seattle quintet, Fleet Foxes, whirls and turns in the background. The song is "He Didn't Know Why" and I can't deny that I have become a woman obsessed. The sound is benevolent, omniscient, and powerful. It is folk that swells and builds, as opposed to the the meagre yet satisfying simplicity of the starving-musician-armed-with-a-single-acoustic-against-the-cold-capitalistic-realities-of-the-world-type of folk. "He Didn't Know Why" is full of sound, an army, if you will, though it may still encite the urge to wander amongst the redwoods while cradeling some furry woodland creature in your hemp poncho. There are traces of the Byrds, Fleetwood Mac, and harmonic bliss of the Beach Boys hinted at in the track. Like the forest trail it would seem to have been conceived in, it winds into crevaces that you never expect it to, starting with the tightly interweaving harmonies of the Mamas and the Papas and flourishing into dramatic buildups that the late 60s LA scene could never fathom through thier patchouli scented haze. The melody's authenticity can be attributed to the rich voices guiding it, and it's simplicity is never sparse with J Tillman's galvanizing chant-like percussion effects. It is a bloody cut of steak for all the vegetarians out there, and for me, it has somehow managed to transport me to an Oakland redwood forest while I sit here in the concrete great plains of the San Joaquin valley sipping my parents white zin and watching the minivans cruise by.