. . . does the talking

It may well have been like this at Woodstock too, you know. Mud as far as the eye could see, hippie chicks wafting by, trailing wafts of patchouli oil and hairy, beardy young men staring enigmatically into the middle-distance. I doubt, though, if there were as many North Face windcheaters or Hunter wellies.

There were probably a few bands just like Fleet Foxes on the bill at Woodstock too. Over the last year, these Seattle twentysomethings have hit a rich seam by reheating and reworking a homespun, pastoral sound of old. Their debut album was full of songs that were ravishing and ethereal.

Live, Robin Pecknold and friends closed their eyes and hit those notes perfectly. Sun Giantset out their stall of cascading harmonies and it was as near to Sabbath bliss as we'll get.

By the time White Winter Hymnalcame around, to tell of turning the snow as red as strawberries in summertime, we were all truly smitten and ready to run away with the fairies. JC