I don't know why it took me so long to find this review, but if you only read two takes on Fleet Foxes' Helplessness Blues, make NME's hatchet job one of them (a taste after the jump).
Renee McMahon Robin Pecknold's Fleet Foxes played the Moore on Tuesday, May 3. Yes, he appears to own only one sweater.
I can't say I agree with its premise that FF epitomizes the "fake-rustic rootsiness that seems to be colonizing our era," but it'll give you something to think about. Fake-rustic rootsiness may be colonizing our era, but Fleet Foxes are hardly the worst offenders. As the band made clear at the Moore on Tuesday, they're pulling away from the indie-folk herd, heading down far rockier terrain, as opposed to descending into faux-Americana. It's a path they're well-suited for.
They peddle the same sort of fake-rustic rootsiness that seems to be colonizing our era: all these flatpack off-the-peg dreams of Ruritania that iPad-stashing mid-lifes have taken up as a counterpoint to their rabid technophilia. They lull you in with their flawlessly polished music and hey-nonny-nonny you into a hypnagogic state, with the aim of making the world safe for the bland, the dull and the wi-fi enabled.