With their self-titled debut album already jostling for position at the peak of many an end-of-year poll, Fleet Foxes are here to confirm what everyone in the ABC suspects: they are not merely blogosphere darlings but one of the greatest American bands to emerge in a long, long time. Appropriately, singer Robin Pecknold looks like he’s been kept in storage since 1968 – lank hair, cardigan, awkward but endearing – and he is the star of this hugely talented band, his pristine voice the summit of their extraordinary baroque harmonies. They open with ideal opener ‘Sun it Rises’ before dipping into the Sun Giant EP. But it’s the ethereal, pastoral folk-rock of the album that commands our attention: ‘White Winter Hymnal’ instigates a polite singalong, while ‘Blue Ridge Mountains’ and Pecknold’s a cappella vocals on ‘Oliver James’ are magical. Many of the fans must have been expecting to walk home through “the quivering forest”. Instead they were jolted from their reverie by the drunken denizens of Sauchiehall Street.