Fleet Foxes
Fleet Foxes Veronica Rose

Last Thursday night, Fleet Foxes hit the Crystal Ballroom for one of their first shows in six years. The folk band—which formed in Seattle in the mid-'00s, then went quiet after releasing and touring the Grammy-nominated Helplessness Blues in 2011—performed a mix of old and new songs from their forthcoming album Crack Up. They brought with them everything fans love about Fleet Foxes: layered harmonies shepherded by Robin Pecknold's still-incredible voice, pastoral lyrics, and an almost religious-seeming intensity that made the Crystal feel like a cathedral.

The sold-out concert's audience reflected this fervor; I've never seen a group of people pump their fists into the air as triumphantly as they did when the band played the first notes of "Mykonos." Clouds of weed smoke puffed up throughout the crowd like the chimneys of distant hamlets. Some attendees whispered lyrics with eyes closed, while others sung (or maybe yowled) each word with guttural force. Between songs, a few audience members even did the excited "WOOF WOOF WOOF" thing sports fans do at tailgates, which was met by scolding from violent shushers. Meanwhile, as images of deep space were projected behind them, Fleet Foxes ventured into jam-band territory with tracks like "The Shrine/An Argument." I couldn't help but wonder: Are they my generation's Grateful Dead?

There were moments when I wished I could teleport back to the Arlene Schnitzer in March 2016, when Pecknold opened for Joanna Newsom with solo, acoustic songs. But most of Fleet Foxes' Crystal show was glorious and filled with joy—a grand return that Portland welcomed with mighty fist-pumps.