Amidst all the presumptuous sniping at Coldplay on yesterday’s playlist blog, someone asked me whether the debut Fleet Foxes album had turned up yet. As it happened, I was just working on a review of that record for the issue of Uncut out at the end of May. It is, you’ll be relieved to hear, pretty fine. Fleet Foxes, if you’ve missed earlier hyperbole surrounding them like this and all the post-SXSW frothing, are a bunch of youngish, hairy types from Seattle who’ve rapidly perfected a folkish, spiritual take on a kind of cosmic American music once typified by the work of My Morning Jacket. Around the time of “At Dawn”’s UK release, I became rather obsessed with My Morning Jacket, so I’ve been avoiding writing about their forthcoming “Evil Urges” for the past month, since I’ve found it so hugely disappointing (a rival, in fact, to Spiritualized’s “Songs In A&E” as my biggest personal disappointment of 2008 thus far). Perhaps it’s churlish to suggest that Jim James and his band should play out their entire career in a Louisville grain silo; certainly, James has long talked of ambitions that stretched much further than that transcendant strain of southernish rock. But still, “Evil Urges” comes as something of a shock, as the band attempt some kind of silvery digital pop, and an appallingly clumsy funk number called “Highly Suspicious” which our office has variously compared to Muse’s “Supermassive Black Hole”, Robert Palmer’s “Addicted To Love” and, God help us, The Electric Six. Perhaps more disappointing, though, are the more conventional songs, which follow the template of old-model MMJ, but seem blander, more polished, less spooked – less coated in reverb and, instead, properly recorded, some may argue. Those defenders of “Evil Urges” are already pushing it hard in the States and, certainly, the band seem poised for some sort of crossover success, whatever that means. I’m sure the live shows will still be terrific – at the Hop Farm festival supporting Neil Young, for a start. For the time being, though, “Fleet Foxes” is a much more satisfying record. As I said last time, there’s something a little bit hokey about the band, with the constant poetic referencing of an American wilderness and the appropriation of Sacred Harp-style harmonies (on the fantastic “White Winter Hymnal”, especially). But it works tremendously well here, another fine example of a new strain of Americana – alongside Bon Iver, Phosphorescent and maybe Samamidon – that aims for a kind of backwoods etherealism rather than earthy authenticity. I’m not going to write too much about the specifics of the album here, because I don’t want to be repeat myself in the review for the magazine. But my initial fears that Fleet Foxes had stretched themselves a bit too thinly, given the consistent excellence of the six songs on the imminent “Sun Giant” EP, have proved unfounded. The band are certainly operating in a very narrow musical channel, that sometimes can feel a bit repetitive: delicate acoustics, celestial harmonies, a mild tumble of drums, some stuff about mountains and frozen rivers and so on. But after a few close listens, two thoughts occur: one, that Robin Pecknold’s songcraft is actually very strong, exploiting endless subtle, delicate twists on his formula; and two, that his formula is so seductive, Fleet Foxes might as well play “White Winter Hymnal” for 40 minutes, and I’d still be hooked. Very interested to see them live, too, when I suspect there’s scope to grow some of these songs a bit more rock muscle – without, hopefully, obscuring their striking charm. Touring the UK in June, I believe. . .

I’ve been thinking these past couple of days about the dubious furore that has been brewing around Jay-Z’s headline slot at Glastonbury, thanks in part to Noel Gallagher weighing in on the subject last week. There are a lot of issues about non-exclusivity, festival overkill, pervading fear of mud and so on that have impacted on Glasto ticket sales this year, which I can’t really be bothered to rehash here. What does interest me, though, is the perceived unsuitability of Jay-Z as a headliner of the festival. If he isn’t right for Glastonbury, then what is? Some things to get out of the way first: obviously, Glastonbury has more acts playing than some festivals have punters, so the idea that unsuspecting campers will be subjected to 72 hours of inescapable, omnipresent hip-hop seems unlikely. It’s about more than the sort of foursquare Britrock exemplified by Oasis, too, which Gallagher characteristically suggested was somehow the ‘authentic’ sound of Glastonbury. After a few barefoot reveries near the stone circle in the ‘90s, I’d be tempted to suggest that the authentic sound of Glastonbury was a gang of sleep-deprived trustafarians drumming in the dawn, or maybe someone playing an Ozric Tentacles CD in a hedge. But I must admit, the idea of something bucolic, a little mystical, redolent of the gorgeous Vale Of Avalon, seems ideal for Glastonbury, in the abstract at least. The thing is, I was thinking about this the other day, and out of all the excellent Glastos I’ve attended, I could barely remember enjoying anything that actually fitted that bill; y’know, rustic, folkish, a tad psychedelic of course. I remember seeing Van Morrison invoking the spirit of Avalon in an incantatory “Summertime In England” back in 1989, which caught something of the local spirit. But listen to “The Common One” now, and it’s songs like “Haunts Of Ancient Peace” (which I’ve never seen Morrison play live, though in fairness I gave up on his live shows at some point in the early ‘90s) which resonate much more strongly. The strongest musical memory I have of Glastonbury that year, as it happens, is something enormously removed from the ancient traditions of England, being a headline set on the Sunday night from Fela Kuti. It’s easy, in the midst of a festival, to get into some dewy-eyed, sentimental rant about the collective joy found in a temporary community, and the indomitable power of music to transcend location. Etc. But here – as with Tinariwen on the Uncut stage at Latitude last year – it made sense. I guess Oasis have that power for many people. But I don’t see how the potency of Jay-Z’s amazing back catalogue need necessarily be depleted by it being played out in a Somerset field. In fact, the odd juxtaposition might just work in its favour. I remember talking to Kieran Hebden a few years ago, around the time he put out “Pause” as Four Tet and brilliantly hybridised electronica with the ambience and root sounds of folk music. Kieran talked about how he would often choose a jarring soundtrack for his life. At home in North London, he’d often listen to folk music. Walking in the country, though, he’d play hip-hop or techno on his headphones. The incongruity didn’t lessen his enjoyment of either the music or his environment – if anything, it enhanced both. In other words, maybe seeing Jay-Z at Glastonbury might be much more entertaining than seeing him in some urban arena. It certainly strikes me as more entertaining than seeing The Levellers there, whose folksy music, woolly idea of a counterculture, and jolly sense of collective effort probably make them, unhappily, the ‘authentic’ Glastonbury band. I can’t, though, think of a band who were better suited to Glastonbury than Orbital, who could be both bucolic and urban, pastoral and euphoric, who drew on the egalitarianism of acid house and gave it an epic richness. But what do you reckon? Maybe we can compile our ideal Glasto line-up – so long, you understand, as we keep Jay-Z and Leonard Cohen on the bill?