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| "Everything has got to be love or death" – "Death," White Lies.
White Lies are the glowering, glistening, moody, magnificent, cheekbones-of-granite, stone cold future of Rock. As teenagers in what now seems a different life, they were a band called Fear Of Flying, lumped in with the underage Way Out West club scene. They'd known each other since they were babies in West London, playing together since bassist Charles Cave and drummer Jack Brown struck woodblock and triangle at a school play. Not so many years later, they formed a proper band at the age of fifteen with singer Harry McVeigh (Jack got his first drum kit literally a fortnight before the band formed). Those years spent playing weeknight gigs to an excitable burgeoning fanbase and being driven home at midnight by their mothers in time for assembly in the morning were all in aid of finding their musical feet. Starting with a jagged and jittery desire to make any music they could and influenced by each member's vastly different musical taste, they gradually honed their style into a more atmospheric, grandiose beast. Then in October 2008, they found themselves writing an elegiac mood rock masterpiece by the name of "Unfinished Business" inside fifteen minutes. Realizing it was the first of their songs which was the work of master pop craftsmen rather than enthusiastic trainees, they decided on a fateful tube journey home from the studio that Fear Of Flying were dead; long live White Lies. Writer of the band's striking lyrics, Charles is a fresh, invigorating and slightly deviant new storyteller. He is the creator of these dark, cinematic tales of murder, madness, revenge, loss and love from beyond the grave; as we speak he's working on a piece concerning a girl who hates her parents so much that, to get their revenge on her, they include a clause in their will forcing her to have them stuffed and mounted in her front room so she has to look at them every day. And that's one of the brighter tracks. With their music blooming with darkness, maturity and density ("Unfinished Business" with its church organ synths, gigantic galloping gouts of guitar and mentions of having blood on your hands), singer Harry McVeigh resembled a preacher-man Julian Cope fronting a tuneful Interpol. Their transformation had to be total. Their image blackened to suit their new mood and their gigs began to rage with such devout intensity that some fans were literally driven to tears. White Lies: you'll either love them or you're already dead. For more information on White Lies, check out their official website: www.whitelies.com |