Heaven, May 7
My very last concert in London bookended with one of the first I saw. Having been pleasantly surprised and impressed by White Lies at their album preview in January, I wanted to see them in a real concert setting. This gig was significantly larger than the earlier one; their album debuted on top of the chart in the UK, so their two nights at strangely cavernous club Heaven sold out quickly. This resulted in an interesting excursion day-of to pick up ebayed tickets from a 50 year old German man named Hans outside Aldgate East tube station. In Jenna's words, "I felt like we were doing a drug deal."
Having prevailed over some kind of water main problem outside, we ventured to Heaven in time to catch the second half of opener School of Seven Bells. They've been getting a lot of buzz, but I think half of a set was about all I needed. Their mix of ethereal harmonies and heavy, twisting guitar is certainly interesting, but most of their songs sound very similar. While not terrible, the most interesting thing about the band was their Cillian Murphy doppelganger guitarist and his strange dancing.
White Lies appeared after a brief interval and played most of their album. That's both the up and down side to bands with only one album in their repetoire; you get to hear every song you like, but there's very little surprise. Some highlights of the set included singles To Lose My Life and Farewell to the Fairground, as well as gloomy Joy Division homage Unfinished Business. A surprise favorite of mine ended up being a stripped down version of slow-burning Nothing to Give. They returned for an encore that included an up-tempo new track and stunning closer Death.
White Lies has much in common with several bands from the past couple of years. Their gloom-rock, black clothes, stripped down lights aesthetic shares a lot with The Rakes, Editors, newer Horrors, etc., but the thing that surprises is how young the band is. Still teenagers when they formed White Lies precursor Fear of Flying, the band has just cracked their twenties and perform like consummate professionals. Harry McVeigh has the stiff, serious kind of showmanship that Brandon Flowers could have if he toned down the nerves and the weird dancing (McVeigh also has moments when he breaks the Curtis drone and sounds a bit like B. Flo.). They have the charisma in their music to play arenas if they can avoid the sophomore album curse and expand on the dark, dramatic sound that makes To Lose My Life such a fantastic album.
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