'The Mighty Boosh' The Strange Tale of the Crack Fox (TV Episode 2007) cast and crew credits, including actors, actresses, directors, writers and more. ![]() In the six years since ’ last album, their has eclipsed them in the public eye by embracing a flamboyant persona fluent in sex, drugs, self-awareness, and sarcasm, like a not-so-subtle referendum on his previous gig. None of Josh Tillman’s jokes have been crueler than the unmistakable alliteration embedded in the title of the first album:. Considering the lengths folkies like Tillman,, and have gone to ensure their beards no longer speak on their behalf, it’s all the more amazing that Robin Pecknold hasn’t tried to counteract the earnest, unglamorous perception of him and Fleet Foxes. He has actually embraced it. While Fleet Foxes’ music has grown increasingly more complex and less crowd-pleasing, Pecknold’s personal trajectory has strangely aged in reverse—the old-soul serenity of gave way to the post-grad anxieties of, and now we have Crack-Up, which does not present recent Columbia enrollee Robin Pecknold in the most flattering light. But there’s a textured humanity in place of the assumed and implacable scare-quotes authenticity that served as Fleet Foxes’ personality prior. Crack-Up contains his most compelling writing to date because it’s so damn relatable in 2017—reacting and retreating inwards as people and institutions fail to meet the standards set in one’s head. Columbia University has been an unexpectedly major influencer of indie aesthetics in the past decade due to its inextricable association with, whose self-titled debut serves as the most convincing collegiate promotional material ever constructed. Through the lens of, Columbia came off like a finishing school for the attractive, socially curious, and culturally omnivorous—laying out the unlimited possibilities and blindingly bright futures of an Ivy League education and New York City at the same time. Pecknold signed up for the exact opposite experience, “I Am a Rock” to Ezra Koenig’s, “sitting outside Dodge Hall, smoking, being mad,” and presumably glowering at the kids milling about with their polo shirts, pop songs, and crushes. In an uncharacteristically low and atonal register, Pecknold mutters, “I’m all that I need and I’ll be till I’m through,” on Crack-Up’s opening suite. Even more so than Helplessness Blues, Crack-Up obliterates the superficially genial and harmless image so easily projected onto Fleet Foxes. At times, Pecknold threatens to be the most misanthropic, nontraditional student to wander an Ivy League quad since a bearded Rivers Cuomo hobbled through Harvard. On Pecknold resigned to not being a special snowflake—a line that has gone from being precious to uncomfortably prescient—and Crack-Up likewise takes a condemnatory tone towards men who think they’re special enough to upset the designs of Mother Nature (“Fire can’t doubt its heat/Water can’t doubt its power/You’re not a gift You’re not a flower”). Helplessness Blues remains one of the decade’s most resonant expressions of millennial tension, years before “millennial” became an oppressive buzzword. But Pecknold’s anxieties were contrasted by music that signified the exact opposite of what it felt like to be financially insecure and technologically dominated in 2011. Likewise, Crack-Up supports the heft of Pecknold’s concerns by working on a massive scale that no band is really attempting in 2017, let alone able to accomplish. Fleet Foxes are still a folk act, though one that’s absorbed far-flung versions of the term. By the penultimate “I Should See Memphis,” it’s more than likely that Pecknold is referring to the one in Egypt rather than Tennessee, as Fleet Foxes integrate Gnawa music, chamber orchestration, pastoral psychedelia, and jazz modalities without ever exceeding their reach.
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Март 2019
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