I've been thinking of this review of Fleet Foxes premier album by Stephen M. Deusner all day. Reading Oscar Wilde, I can really understand how absolutely wonderful a critic's review of a work of art can be. Again and again he reaffirmed the thoughts I had during this album, the warm and gorgeous harmonies of a more rustic age bringing the listener into, as Deusner puts it, "Fleet Foxes' old world," while bringing other more fuzzy imagery into much greater focus, placing eloquent and apt explanations in front of the frenzied frescoes the mind tends to remember. I just really liked this review, both because it so beautifully understood an album I absolutely adored, and because I understood why I enjoyed reading it so much.
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