Fleet Foxes

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It’s hard to figure out what's good when so much new material is coming at you. For the cerebral prestige partying crew, there is no room in the summer to simply spend money on bands that don’t matter.  With Pitchfork Music Festival right around the corner, let’s have some fun. Let’s play three truths and a lie. Can you guess which of these four fun facts are NOT true?

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.

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