The sold-out April 24th concert at the Bowery Ballroom opens with the unfortunate efforts of Telepathe, a group of awkward misfits who appear to have stepped out of an 80s magazine’s worst dressed spread. For one unexpected moment, their sound slightly resembles that of The Streets—however—the resemblance vanishes as quickly as it appears. The painfully awkward set finally ends to a smattering of unenthusiastic applause and wholehearted boos.
Following Telepathe's disastrous opening, Brooklyn locals The Epochs take the audience by storm. The Epochs, singing upbeat lyrics like, “Sunlight all night long” and, “Just put your head in the fire, keep walking and I will be safe,” produce optimistic Indie-pop. Their versatility and interesting harmonies result from the combination of Hays Holladay’s mellow, low voice with brother Ryan's piercing, higher vocals, similar to those of Coheed and Cambria’s Claudio Sanchez.
Hays ardently grips the microphone as the band’s dynamic sound builds and suddenly pulls back. Kicking his feet around as he dances in place, he entertains the audience with his passion for the music. Unlike Hays, bassist Kevin Smith is sedate as he sways back and forth. Matching Hays’ energy, Ryan and drummer Kotchy drive the performance on until, at the climax of the song, Smith finally joins in and all band members throw themselves completely into the music.
Hailing from Oxford, England, Foals—a self-proclaimed group of “snotty art school dropouts hungry for the dollar”—consist of five members: Jimmy Smith (guitar), Jannis Philippakis (vocals/guitar), Edwin Congreave (keyboard), Walter (a/k/a Walty) Gervers (bass), and Jack Bevan (drums). The dance-punk group warms up with a mini jam session before playing songs from its recently released album, Antidotes, pairing stream of consciousness lyrics with dance-inspiring beats.
Jumping and jerking, Foals uses the entire stage as its playground. Sweat coats each face and drenches the members' hair. An explosion of overpowering and awe-inspiring sound bursts from the stage. Caught up in the fervor, Smith swings his guitar menacingly overhead while Philippakis trips back and forth in front of the microphone. Foals’ zeal and awesome sound incites the audience, rousing them to a frenzy of chanting, dancing, head banging, and passionate arm-flailing.
No recording can possibly capture the unrestrained energy that radiates from this band. For the moment of the performance, there is nothing but the music. Then the show ends and the audience members disperse. Traipsing home with ear buds in place, they relive the concert by listening to Antidotes, merely a muted echo of Foals' performance.
