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Blessed be, there’s a younger generation respectful of the “wooden music” minted in SoCal canyons at the end of the 1960s. Fleet Foxes hail from up the coast in Seattle, and doubtless the rains caused them to distill the sun-dappled sonic language and fringe-rock aesthetic that preceded them in a unique way. This Redbone’s just giddy that they also recoup my Auld Varginny homeboy Bill Withers in their process. Robin Pecknold and his bandmates are definitely doing it for all the young artists testifying at the riverside where country and western meet, and where English Baroque bows before the African blue note. With Frank Fairfield.
Sat., Oct. 4, 8 p.m., 2008