Last night at the Annex's White Williams + Telepathe show we saw a lady dressed as Sylvia Plath with her head in an oven. She made a big gigantic oven! It was bonkers! We salute you, crazy Halloweeners. But, really, we were there to see what is mystical without ever needing costume: the music!
Telepathe had to pull punches with unclear sound/equipment troubles. It had them shook. Don't worry ladies (and dude) you are killer. Especially when you both sing together and do that little rain dance. When you are feeling it we are feeling it. That eight minute song you played first is the Trojan horse of relaxation. First we think we are zoning and then you flip it and get kinda gnarly and we are like "hey we weren't prepared for you all to double up and pound our heads" but it's too late because it took hold. Those "Dance Motherfucker" shirts were sort of intimidating, too, so we did, mimicked your light Telepathe sway. Your music matches your moves.
White Williams, we couldn't figure out if that was dude's costume or if he is into mint flannel and flower caps or if he was Chainsaw from Summer School. Either way, you people were getting buck. We got beer on us, hit in the head with witches' hats, chilled with Teddy Ruxpin and saw someone who probably was not over five feet tall basically krumping. We are pretty sure that has never happened to a band featuring a melodica. White Williams, we like that you are so cooly cool, asymmetrical hair and licks pared down into organized ditties. The songs from Smoke, released Tuesday, are jammy mcjammingtons, the tour practice turned coal (not that it was coal-like, but you know what we mean) into diamonds and our fake holiday curmudgeon frowns upside down.