By Alex Szeptycki

For Fleet Foxes, Shore is impressively consistent. Each track presents a meticulously detailed soundscape deepened by Robin Pecknold’s varied meditative perspectives.

Across their storied discography, Fleet Foxes has calmly sat in the eye of a storm. Songwriter and front man Robin Pecknold’s pristine, layered indie folk offered shelter from his music’s intimations of existential dread — though he never let the listener forget it. Now, amid the unending anxiety of 2020, the Foxes have released Shore, an album that underlines this need to soothe. It’s a softer, more earnest serving of their familiar folkie bliss, entertaining enough to beat back angst from all angles. There’s little new from Pecknold here, but the album’s success underscores his singular mastery of sound and identity.

Shore, as all of the Fleet Foxes’ previous discography, is the brainchild of Pecknold. As before, he is in charge of the writing and recording. This new effort distills the customary strengths of their previous work. “For a Week or Two” is a starkly joyous ballad familiar to any Foxes listener, replete with pastoral harmonies and soft acoustic plucking. “And you’ve brought enough to last another week or two,” Pecknold sings, reveling in blissful isolation. This lush soundscape is expanded on “Cradling Mother, Cradling Woman,” where liquid horn runs supply an understated triplet groove. One of Shore‘s hallmarks is its intricate layering of sound, which injects moments of beauty into all the tracks.

Still, these tranquil accents can’t shake off an anxiety that emanates from much of Shore. Pecknold’s musings are hazy but resonant. “Con-men controlled my fate,” he cries as “Maestranza” drives forward. The smoke of conflict hangs in the air and the line “no time to get it wrong” comes along accompanied by tinges of dissonance creeping into the guitars and keys. Later, Pecknold’s unease morphs from worldly into downright primordial on “Quiet Air/Gioia.” An idyllic folk guitar delivers apocalyptic warnings, “You want to go where the fire is worst/You want to watch our tower drop to the water.” Halfway through, the song takes a sharp turn, crescendoing ominously, as eerie backing vocals respond to Pecknold’s chorus, singing “Devil walk back oh devil walk back (I never wanna die I never wanna die).”

There’s also a very real sense of isolation in Shore, as if Pecknold is observing this chaos from the isolation of his apartment window. “Featherweight” pairs downcast minor guitars with soft, meditative lyrics. Some hope bleeds into the track on the chorus, which offers such lulling sentiments as “May the last long year be forgiven,” and a closing declaration that “One warm day is all i need.” But things are dour on the following “A Long Way Past the Past.” Pecknold, overwhelmed by seemingly endless cycles of bad news, laments that “My worst times look fine from here.” He’s become far more resigned here, singing “It’ll be better off in a year or two,” his voice intimating doubt. At times, melancholic tracks like this seem to be bleeding into one another — underscoring Pecknold’s ennui.

Shore looks inward as often as it does outward. “Can I Believe You” inserts psychological conflict into a warm and spacious riff, and it is a captivating discord. “What half of it is of me rearranged?” Pecknold asks, playfully hoping to bridge a gap in his identity. Elsewhere, quiet downtempo guitars on “I’m Not My Season” are paired with soft singing and nautical imagery: “Can you catch a thrown line?/Tied around neat.” Pecknold attempts to buck the seasonal cycle, to rise above the weather: his wistful delivery of “Well time’s not what I belong to/And I’m not the season I’m in” provides flickers of hope. Pecknold’s ambivalent reflections, over lush backdrops, provide comfort and melancholy in equal measure.

There are brighter moments, ones that highlight Pecknold’s creative power as a lyricist. Indeed, these are some of the best songs on the record. “Sunblind,” the second track, sees the front man paying homage to his musical inspirations, many of them gone too soon. From John Prine to Bill Withers, Pecknold eulogizes his heroes, singing “For every gift lifted long before its will.” But the song is not just about loss, it celebrates; bright keys and acoustic strumming hit their peaks when Pecknold sings “I’m gonna swim for a week in/Warm American Water with dear friends.” He’s awestruck when he cries “And in your rarefied air I feel sunblind/I’m looking up at you there high in my mind.” The tune is a stunning ode to the continuity of artistry.

Pecknold also shows a more playful side in such songs as “Young Man’s Game,” where he proffers a wonderfully self-effacing energy. Crisp, funky drum fills drive the song forward as Pecknold pokes fun at his youthful pretensions. The missteps of adolescent posturing, including reading Ulysses in order to pass as erudite, are derided as “A young man’s game.” This series of good-natured jibes adds a welcome satiric dimension to the record.

The few weak spots on Shore occur toward the back end, where there is an occasional lapse in songwriting. The sounds remain still deep and lush, but aren’t marshaled together quite as effectively. “Thymia” plays on familiar ideas about the rewards of isolation and tranquility, but the languid piano and horn leads never imbue the song with much momentum. Elsewhere, “Going-to-the-Sun Road” examines fatigue: a meandering guitar run accompanies the story of a return home from an enervating road trip. It’s one of the more complex song structures on the album but, unfortunately, the piece never jells. The baroque-sounding horns that open the track drag it down while the triplet groove that is supposed to carry the track becomes stale quickly. Still, the sounds in these slight blunders generate plenty of pleasure.

For Fleet Foxes, Shore is impressively consistent. Each track presents a meticulously detailed soundscape deepened by Pecknold’s varied meditative perspectives. His pastoral vision may be a little more straightforward this time, but that shouldn’t be surprising, given that serenity is what he’s been interested in all along.

Alex Szeptycki is a writer from Charlottesville Virginia. He recently graduated from Stanford University, Majoring in American Studies with a focus in contemporary art and pop culture. He’s currently working as a freelance writer at The Arts Fuse while navigating post grad life in a pandemic.