"He Doesn't Know," as you'll see from one of the photos below, was the 8th song of the night.

The Grateful Dead, Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Bob Dylan, Stanley Kubrick, Ethan Hawke, Jane Fonda, Mark Twain, Dylan Thomas, Jack Kerouac, Arthur Miller, Thomas Wolfe and that's just the beginning. New York City is unique in that it can shine as the superhero of uniqueness as much as it can fall victim to being just another stereotye. And the city by no means keeps either a secret. My most recent trip there allowed me to experience much more of the former than the latter. So other than maneuvering my way through the sea of pastel from all of the "If I can make it here I can make it anywhere" gals who were the size of jimmies and all wearing the ever so bromidic ensemble of babydoll dresses and gladiator sandles, New York's Chelsea area and its surroundings were remarkably pleasant. Oh yeah and apparently the weaner dog is in down there, too? (I'm not generalizing all of New York City's inhabitants as gladiator sandle wearing, weaner dog owning individulas, but just pointing them out as they became a theme on the streets during my brief time there.)

So on to the less superficial stuff beginning with my stay at the Hotel Chelsea. Yes THE Hotel Chelsea. All I could think is 1.) when can I move in? and 2.) for the first time in my life I am actually hoping to see an apparition. Unfortunately neither ended up happening. But just to be walking through the same doors as such noted artists and to lay my head down within the same walls that inspired countless songs, memorable words to be scribbled down in moments of pure genius and that love was made in, lives were lost in and modern art was born was just a mind-blowing experience. And it all got that much better as I popped into a taxi and headed for the corner of Bowery and Delancey.

I won't lie, that corner was a bit scary. I had no idea in which direction the Bowery Ballroom was, but knew it had to be close. A look to my left revealed a small cluster of people, and I figured that was a good enough indicator for me to head on across the street. I proudly walked right on in with my ticket to the sold out show and descended to the basement of the ballroom, which was lit only by the fiery haze of red bulbs. My mission was to snatch up Fleet Foxes's second album, which is self titled. I was surprised by the number of new songs on the CD cover that I was unfamiliar with but was thrilled at the fact that I would be hearing them for the first time live.

The Bowery Ballroom is a great venue. It has three bars in total: one at the basement level, one on the second floor and another in the balcony area. The shiny wooden floors, the narrow main room and the high ceilings reminded me of my elementary school gym class. But as I made my way to the horseshoe shaped balcony area, ablaze with laterns on the posts and a bar backlight by a huge cresent shaped window, visions of a younger me whirling around in roller skates faded away, and I settled myself right in with a Blue Point and grabbed my spot for the show.

The band of five entered the stage with lead singer Robin Pecknold taking a seat, as I heard he does at every show, rockin' the Seattle flanel and a winter hat with its wool strings hanging past his chin; the temperature had reached over 80 degrees that day. *Side note: Fleet Foxes came to Buffalo and were the openers for Blitzen Trapper. I missed the show because I was working until 4:00 a.m.; a sore subject until I could finally put it all behind me this past Wed. night. The Dutchess and The Duke who opened for Fleet Foxes mentioned that not only were they sick, but that Fleet Foxes were as well. And let me say, if what I heard was "sick Fleet Foxes" my God, I can't even imagine what they sound like sans the occasional cough.

They opened with "Sun Giant," which of course broke gracefully through the attentive air and wisked everyone away to the land o' Fleet Foxes. "Baroque harmonic pop" sums their sound up nicely. Each member, other than Skye Skjelset, joined in the harmonizing. It's just astonishing to hear how well these guys sing together. I noticed that the drummer had an exceptionally fine voice and then later realized that the drummer is J.(Josh) Tillman whose solo work I also enjoy. Robin Pecknold finally lost his winter hat, which I concluded was his version of a security blanket, but continued to pull at his chin length hair from either side almost as if those strings were still there. At 22 i don't think Pecknold fully can comprehend how much his music is appreciated; he'd shake his head as the crowd would applaud almost in an effort to somehow counteract the praise he and his band were receiving, but the crowd kept cheering.

Each song tells a different story. Each capturing your mind with their words and the hypnotic sound they produce. It's folk that bares characteristics of the Baroque period, which is evident in their superb execution of echoing each other in different pitches with their voices, as well as instruments. The finger picking, a true sign of a classical guitar background and the intertwined melodies all support this summation. It's all together a purely sacred sound and one that brought tears to my eyes on separate occasions.

The first video is Robin solo singing Tiger Mountain Peasant Song, which I believe is the best title for a song ever. How can you not enjoy a band who has song titles like that? Anyway, Pecknold sang this at the Bowery and it blew me away. The other song that he sang solo that isn't posted is the song Oliver James. That was also a solo and had me hanging over the railing. The second video is Mykonos and is actually from the show on 7.9.08.

I highly recommend seeing these guys if they come to your town, and even if they don't because they sure as hell are worth the trip.