There’s always been something mythical about Fleet Foxes’ music; those intricate harmonies and swelling arrangements intertwined with frontman Robin Pecknold’s often-lofty poetry convey intimacy while conjuring up Homeric images of cloudy mountain forests, stormy seas, and some connection to the spirit of the earth long-since forgotten. As such, there’s a risk when bringing their music to the stage that something will get lost in translation.
Trudging into the Independent on yet another cold, appropriately misty San Francisco night, I was quite honestly exhausted and wishing I was in my bed. While I had been wholly captivated by Father John Misty at Outside Lands last month...my bed was so warm. However, I made the adult decision to stay and enjoy the show. Thank God I did.