Helplessness Blues has always embodied what I envision to be all of the “perfect” traits of the folk canon: it’s engrossing, cathartic, and Robin Pecknold sings in a way that you can almost smell the vaguely pine-scented air as soon as those acoustic guitars – spiritualized and envigored by angelically cavernous harmonies – trickle through your speakers. However,
Helplessness Blues was emotionally berthed far from the liberating, nature-bound aura that this piece so effortlessly whisks you away to. Pecknold, leading up to the album’s release, said he had “no friends outside of Fleet Foxes”. He accumulated substantial debt trying to further the band, was suffering from acute social anxiety, broke up with his girlfriend of five years, and – musical aspirations aside – found himself jobless post-graduation and wondering what the hell would come next. Needless to say,
Helplessness Blues is more than just a
#nature Instagram-filtered picture of a shimmering lake – its
earthiness is born out of Pecknold’s desire for respite; to find a quiet place and hide until it’s all over; to escape the modern pressures that society places upon young adults who the absolute
second they leave school are expected to – through some kind of sorcery – possess money as well as answers. Questions like “who do I want to be” and “what’s my purpose” aren’t typically answered throughout the course of one’s entire life, yet for some reason, we ask it of twenty-year-olds all the time. That didn’t sit well with Pecknold, and
Helplessness Blues was his escape from reality. This is the
opposite of perfection: it’s a record about navigating through life like a piece of driftwood on the ocean’s waves – directionless, without answers, but clinging to hope.
Pecknold knows there’s a grander purpose to his existence, and it’s through that life-affirming belief that
Helplessness Blues achieves its silver lining. We see him uphold simplistic values over the complications of present-day educational and professional expectations (
“If I had an orchard, I'd work till I'm raw”), likening himself to a mere pin or axle in a vaster scheme:
“after some thinking, I'd say I'd rather be / a functioning cog in some great machinery, serving something beyond me.” His willingness to submit to the machine is suggestive of his crippling anxiety, but it is his acceptance of such a role that makes
Helplessness Blues feel at peace with itself, even if Pecknold himself is disenchanted with the world around him. He finds resolution in a lack thereof, and as Robin comes to terms with uncertainty, you can sense that a massive weight has been lifted from his shoulders. It’s a relief we can all feel when he sings
”In that dream, there's no darkness a-loomin'…In that dream I could hardly contain it, all my life I will wait to attain it” atop a thunderous percussive undercurrent as
Helplessness Blues wanes into a six year oblivion (
Crack-Up, a far more hopeful endeavor, would follow in 2017). It’s during this crystallizing moment that catharsis seems achievable – not just for Robin, but for everyone.
Helplessness Blues embodies imperfection, but it emphasizes the idea as a scientific law rather than a burden, and encourages us to sing along with him – brimming with doubt –
“I don't know who to believe…I'll get back to you someday soon”. Sing it at the top of your lungs, and you might begin to realize that it’s okay
not to have your life so figured out.
