Monday 10/11/08 Fleet Foxes @ Shepherd's Bush Empire, London

Shepherd's Bush is sold out and feels like it; polite, sticky bodies stand motionless in anticipation as the band makes their inconspicuous, timely entrance. They begin without introduction, introverted and calm as their coo delicious harmonies and slip into Sun It Rises. Its withdrawn clarity rings out and welcomes all to Fleet Foxes' evening.

They look exactly as they sound, singer Robin Pecknold's beard and straggly hair appears less a preference than a necessity. The otherworldly melodies of Quiet House and He Doesn't Know Why contain grandeur and solemnity, placing the crowd on tenterhooks already, waiting for a spark to shock the tranquil splendour into a more strident bliss. Instead, the band starts talking. We aren't used to this with American bands, or any for that matter. Pecknold and drummer J. Tillman, who earlier played his own solo set, don't share clichés, instead revealing some of the wit and sensitivity that is so distinct in their songs.

"We should dig a well on this stage and provide drinking water for the whole of the UK," mocks Tillman, midway through a twisting rant on international relations. It's natural, understated and whimsically different; in three minutes they say more onstage than Kings of Leon have in three years. Without the songs though, it's just five folky fellows babbling on, so they launch back into "the anthem of Foxlandia", White Water Hymnal. More upbeat, it pleads for a Beach Boys comparison as the choral whispers simmer past, though this is only apt if the Wilson brothers had frequently foraged in wilderness rather than cruised the seafront.

Mykonos steals the night, capturing the elements of their attraction in a simpering compilation of harmonising and agonising vocal lucidity. Pecknold revels in his thoughts, head bobbing, unconcerned by reaction and unmoved by applause. It's almost stiflingly gracious in the crowd and the sense of devotion all around suggests the band don't need to excel to get their adulation, but do anyway.

Considering they have just one album, it's a lengthy set at 75 minutes and Pecknold has time to unearth a poignant cover of Judie Sill's Crayon Angels. Returning for an encore alone on the stage, his poised control of the engrossed audience is absolute, ears pricking to catch each strum and every wholesome wail of his nourishing voice. As the band joins him for a closing Blue Mountain Ridge, the only complaint is a failure to end tracks with any verve, instead insisting on trailing out in hazy murmurs. Still, this aids the process of immersion in the set, allowing everyone to remain gripped without feeling consciously thrilled. It's going to be interesting to see where they go next. Though if you ask them while they're playing, they will probably tell you.