Pride goes before a fall they say and I’ve had some humble pie fed to me recently by the Fleet Foxes. Like an idiot I’ve been trying to be too kool for skool and not put my two cents on a band that has already had more blog column inches than all the Mumfords and nu-folk guitar stompers combined. Well, that was a *genius* plan as I have been missing out on one of the most earnest and fresh sounding bands of the year. I pressed play on ‘Helplessness Blues’ and got a good kick up the backside. There were layers and layers of lush velvet harmonies, rich blissful arrangements and Robin Pecknold’s sweet luminous vocals. He was shooting cupid’s arrows at me whilst I feebly resisted. There were existential stories of men who only move in dimly lit halls and make desicions about our futures. Golden daydreams of orchards and girls and country restaurants. And then, at 3 minutes, the orchestral harmonies just exploded into a melancoly waltz of hopes and dreams. Notes were falling out of the sky like dying fireworks breaking down to a few lonely glimmers of hope, just before disappearing beneath the stars. And I just sat there dumbfounded. What just happened here?