There are albums that, because of their seeming fragility, don’t make a great first impression. The debut offering from White Magic For Lovers is a case in point. Come to The Book Of Lies half-attentive in the midst of a busy day and don’t be surprised if it seems to spiral away and get lost in the ether, all too easily overwhelmed by distractions as prosaic as the pinging of an email arriving or the whistling of a boiling kettle.
But persevere because the wispiness here is deceptive. Second and third listens reveal intention, playfulness (for all the prettiness of its melodies, the LP rather ominously shares a title with a book by occultist Aleister Crowley) and a far wider sonic palette than you might initially have realised. To adapt a phrase popularised by Kings Of Convenience back in 2001, here is an album to remind you that melancholic quiet can, when it connects, be the new loud.
Which perhaps isn’t too surprising because, for all The Book Of Lies often sounds like it was recorded by young musicians grappling with sixty-plus years of symphonic pop – this is a good thing, incidentally – it’s actually largely the work of Thomas White of Electric Soft Parade fame (along with his husband Alfie White, plus additional instrumental contributions from friends Charlotte Glasson, Craig Chapman, and Matt Eaton) and thus a grizzled survivor of 00s days when indie was going through one of its many fey phases.
However it came to be, The Book Of Lies sets its mood from the off. The instrumental ‘Axelrod’ gently swirls like a 1960s TV theme played by Grandaddy, a band whose influence often seems front and centre on the first few songs here, notably in the way ‘A Riddle Without A Clue’ suddenly surges and gets heavier halfway through its six-plus minutes.
Other highlights include ‘The Edge Of Nowhere’, a place from where “some of us never return”, an idea both mournful and, because of the suggestion of setting out to explore new territory, energising. You can imagine Robert Wyatt covering it to fine effect. The melody on penultimate track ‘Your Time Hasn’t Come Yet, Baby’ is glorious.
That’s not to say there aren’t missteps. In particular, a cover of ‘Suppose’, written by Sylvia Dee and George Goehring and recorded by Elvis in the late 1960s, is just too saccharine. It’s perhaps revealing that ‘The Boy From The Bookshop’, a jaunty, bubblegum psychpop-tinged paean to “people, people everywhere”, follows straight on, as if maybe White doesn’t want to push his luck too far. Such small grumblings aside, a delicate delight.
