„It was Conor Kiley of glam-metal reprobates Holy Ghost Revival who gave the world the term ‘fucking canoeing music’ to nail the flaccid faux-outdoorsy sonics of Fleet Foxes.
Fleet Foxes suck. They’re the soy-latte house band of Starbucks.
They peddle the same sort of fake-rustic rootsiness that seems to be colonising 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.
It’s (singer, Anm.) Pecknold’s milksop voice that dominates, to the point that the unwilling will feel like they’re listening to Crosby, Stills, Nash & A Lonely Duck.“
(Gavin Haynes im NME über das zweite Album der Fleet Foxes)