Sweden’s Dungen are lucky dudes: being Fleet Foxes' “favourite band in the world right now” put the critically acclaimed but relatively unknown psychedelic rockers on tour with one of the biggest buzz bands of the past year. Dungen's heavy, melodic jam-outs were pretty enough, although a tad long-winded in their meanderings. Nods for putting jazz flute back in the spotlight, though.
If Dungen might make more sense in your wood-panelled basement rec room, Fleet Foxes simply must be experienced live. Their 2008 self-titled album — while stunning — barely does a well-harmonized whisper of justice to their near-holy live performance. And the dudes are funny, too.
The Seattle-based folk-slash-baroque-slash-backwoods rock-quintet sent out the goose bumps right off the bat, with the neck-hair-raising gospel “Sun Giant.” Something must be said about the acoustics at Massey Hall here: they are mind freaking blowing. Any grumblings about this show being a seated event quickly dissipated upon hearing the rich, chilling boom of the band’s vocals in that space.
The choral round of “White Winter Hymnal” got people singing along (some a little too much so — just sayin'), and the chug-a-lug of “Ragged Wood” had us doing our best seat-dancing. But it was when lead singer/guitarist Robin Pecknold took the stage for a solo stint that the band’s more jovial nature started to seep through.
While setting up for a solitary version of “Tiger Mountain Peasant Song,” one particularly enthusiastic audience member declared “I like you a lot!” Instead of just laughing or saying "thanks," Pecknold got in on the banter. Imitating the heckler, Pecknold replied: “Um, this isn’t usually my type of music, but for what it’s worth, I can see why people like you.” And so began an evening of mostly awesome band-crowd chit-chat. (Though shame on the horrible guy who yelled “Play Nickelback!” Bad Canadian.)
In between his two breathtaking — seriously, who sings like that?! — solo performances, Pecknold joked about Jeremih's "Birthday Sex," and asked us about whisky (which he drinks onstage in his tea — not Canadian, but scotch). By the time the other band members returned, we had officially bonded. That the rest of the guys got in the fun too (drummer Josh Tilman mocked a “slow clapper” and jumped off his kit to do a little cheer) sealed the deal, and was the perfect intro for the swirling jingle-jangle of “He Doesn’t Know Why.”
Tilman got to goof off again shortly after, when someone else yelled out “I’m enjoying myself!” Tilman’s response: “I’m playing drums!” And play drums he did: that guy bounced and smashed around his kit, at times using maracas and tambourines in place of sticks. A joy to watch.
They closed with the aching, spooky “Mykonos,” but no one was ready to see them leave just yet. Pecknold came back alone and moved right to the front of the stage, past the microphones and monitors to perform a deeply intimate cover of the traditional American folk song “Katy Cruel.” Every word, every tap of his guitar and foot resonated through that hall and through our bones. And that goddamn soul-stirring voice of his — truly, enormously affecting.
After a couple more tunes (“Oliver James,” “Blue Ridge Mountains”), Pecknold came back for a third encore, alone, and performed the heady, exquisite “Meadowlarks” for the first time in over a year, based on an audience request. Such luck.
More than just a coming-together of the anticipated hairy and plaid-y hipster (groan) sector, Fleet Foxes’ sold out show was a congregation of people who get their music: parents with young kids, cool-aunt-and-uncle types — even grammas. Massey Hall filled its seats because Fleet Foxes are as incredibly, freakishly gifted as they are blessedly acclaimed, magically balancing the talent with the hype. An absolute must-see.