Grizzly Bear - Shields (2LP)

Shields is the sound of a band tightening its circle and trusting the chemistry. Grizzly Bear had already carved out a space with Yellow House and the widescreen glow of Veckatimest, but this 2012 Warp release feels like four musicians moving as one organism. The emphasis shifts from ornate studio layering to performance and interplay, with Chris Bear’s drumming given air to bloom, Chris Taylor sculpting tones with a producer’s ear, and the voices of Ed Droste and Daniel Rossen weaving in and out like flickering lamps on the same porch.

It opens with “Sleeping Ute,” a Rossen-led mirage that lunges and recedes on unstable guitar figures. The rhythm stutters, then locks, then flares again, as if the song is testing its own legs. By “Speak in Rounds,” the record is already in that hypnotic Grizzly Bear zone, all crosspicked guitars and hushed harmonies that sneak up on a big, ringing payoff. “Adelma” is a quick, misty hinge and then “Yet Again” arrives sounding almost straightforward for this band. It is not. Ed Droste steers it into a classic chorus, then the floor drops and the song dissolves into a whirring, overloaded coda. The video, directed by Emily Kai Bock, follows a figure skater drifting through late-night New York, and it nailed the album’s mood: beautiful, dislocated, a little haunted.

The back half is even richer. “The Hunt” creeps with a candlelit patience, while “A Simple Answer” jangles and pulses, like the group trying on a brighter shirt and finding it fits. “What’s Wrong” carries a brass-laced ache that never tips into sentimentality. “Gun-Shy” taps out nervous energy with pricked guitars and sounds treated at the microscopic level. Then “Half Gate” clears the fog with a gale of melody before “Sun in Your Eyes” ties it all up in one grand, glowing arc. That closer stretches past seven minutes and never wastes a second, brass and keys swelling as Droste sings to the horizon. I still get goosebumps when that last chord opens.

A lot of the story sits in the process. After early work that sometimes broke down into individual songwriters presenting finished pieces, the Shields sessions emphasized writing together. In interviews around release, the band talked about scrapping ideas that felt too tidy and chasing the energy of playing in a room. You can hear it. Guitars breathe, drums converse, woodwinds peep through like wind in rafters. Chris Taylor’s role as engineer and mixer keeps the sonic picture clear without sanding off texture. It feels lived in, even when the arrangements bloom into something grand.

Critics heard it too. Pitchfork tagged it Best New Music and year-end lists piled up, not as a coronation but as recognition that Grizzly Bear had quietly leveled up again. The songs aren’t built to bowl you over on first listen. They stick, then deepen. “Yet Again” and “Sleeping Ute” became fan favorites for good reason, but it is the connective tissue that sells the record, the transitions where the band lets silence in or lets a snare echo a half second longer.

If you fell for Veckatimest, this is a different kind of reward. It is less chandelier, more solid timber. That makes Shields vinyl such a satisfying spin. The low end sits warm and present, cymbals bloom naturally, and the layered vocals feel three dimensional without turning syrupy. If you browse a Melbourne record store or plan to buy Grizzly Bear records online, look for a clean copy of the Warp pressing. Among Grizzly Bear albums on vinyl, this one is the keeper you put on when the room is dim and you want detail and pulse, not just atmosphere. A later reissue, Shields: Expanded, added outtakes like “Will Calls” and remixes from Nicolas Jaar that are worth hearing, but the core album stands on its own as their most cohesive front-to-back statement.

Grizzly Bear vinyl tends to draw folks who like to lean in, to notice the way a harmony moves on the second chorus or how the toms are tuned to sit under a bassline. Shields rewards that kind of listening, but it also has the simple pleasures of a great rock record. Big choruses, curious bridges, a closer that lands the plane. Ten years on, it still sounds like four friends in a room, hearing each other, leaving space, and trusting the song. If you only grab one Grizzly Bear record for the shelf, this is the one. And if you stumble across Shields vinyl while digging through a bin of vinyl records Australia stockists swear by, take it home. You will know why by the end of side B.