Bostonist had thought psych-folk harper Joanna Newsom was an odd choice of bait to lure the hordes of newly-arrived students into the Museum of Fine Arts, where they were hoping for maybe two thousand attendees at last week's free College Night.

Exceeding the MFA's expectations (and our own assumptions of the size of Newsom's niche), approximately 3,200 showed up to stroll the galleries and one long, dimly-lit room full of cookies and Smartwater. Many promptly reported to the Calderwood Courtyard to stake out territory on the damp lawn in front of a tall, glowing harp on a stage surrounded by trees, fiercely guarding borders with bags and outstretched legs. Bostonist set herself down on the arts section of the Times, while our companion did the Thursday crossword and passed notes in purple ink: LEGGINGS W/O SKIRTS = NOT OKAY.

After Cambridge's Chris Brokaw played an opening set of raspily-sung tunes and jaunty acoustic guitar pieces, Joanna Newsom joined her harp on the dais and declared the venue to be the most bizarre circumstances under which she'd played (in a good way, she assured us), and went on to warn us that she had a cold and had spoken as little as possible the whole day. The pillared courtyard with its sounds of rushing water and insect life and enthusiastically respectful undergraduates seemed, to Bostonist, entirely appropriate circumstances.

Even her polarizing vocal affectations—a peculiar warble variously described as that of an "understudy for Lisa Simpson" and "a 12-year-old autistic schoolgirl on PCP"—didn't seem as jarring as her voice rang out into the woodsy courtyard, accompanied by a chorus of crickets, and lyrics about constellations and dirigibles and "hairless and blind cavalry" bounced off the museum book shop. As a fey, beruffled waif with a huge harp (and the European old masters gallery) towering over her, how else could she sound?

As on her album The Milk-Eyed Mender, she began with "Bridges and Balloons" and concluded with "Clam, Crab, Cockle, Cowrie." In between, she tripped over her words in a very fast "Sadie" and played a crowd-pleasing "Peach, Plum, Pear," as well as several unfamiliar songs of epic length, presumably from Ys, her highly-anticipated, widely-pirated second release on Drag City. While sometimes reverting to the lullabyish simplicity of her earlier work, these were ambitious logorrheic sprees that went on forever (in a good way, we assure you) as she rocked the harp between her deft hands and plucked strings with gestures in the manner of Caravaggio. (Pitchfork has infamously leaked the album, which will be available to the law-abiding public in November. Bostonist hasn't heard it yet—due to laziness more than virtue—but we have seen the cover artwork that's making hipster bloggers squirm. Now that we've seen her for ourselves, we're even more certain that its gameriffic aesthetic is delightfully unironic. Is she a green card, or a white card?)

The appreciative audience brandished Holgas, played musical-chairs when anyone relinquished an advantageous spot on the grass, and applauded some especially complex harp solos. The unjacketed snuggled for warmth in the chill autumn evening, while Newsom professed delight and surprise that her voice was holding up, pausing between songs to sip from a goblet of some honeyed, throat-soothing beverage.

Tickets for her November 14th show went on sale the next morning but, our fondness for the Somerville Theatre notwithstanding, Bostonist wonders if we'll ever see a show as idyllic as Thursday night's. Wandering through an exhibition of Indian paintings in a post-concert daze, Bostonist thought of the refrain from "Bridges and Balloons": It was a funny little thing, to be the ones to've seen.