WHITE LIES – FAIRWELL
TO THE PLAYGROUND (FICTION/POLYDOR)
There is something
about that record that really reminds me of Julian Cope and the Teardrop
Explodes. I guess it mostly lies in how
vocalist Harry McVeigh’s style isn’t exclusively distinct. Then there is the antagonising manner in
which the guitars couple with the keyboards somewhat softening proceedings in a
painfully eighties fashion which perhaps only serves to undermine the clear
intention of the lyrics. One paragraph
along it is already a lot to take in.
This song appears to
be about remorse. The playground
addressed could easily resemble/represent a number of things both past and
present. And all of them mental.
While listening to
this seven inch I find myself scratching my balls. As I raise my fingers to my nose the smell is orgasmic.
The success of this
record is in the chorus and the thumping hook therein found. It’s blunt and unsubtle, exactly the kind of
familiar disposition that the listener is able to psychologically hug and attach
itself to. This music is not
alternative, it’s pop. It’s clear. It may as well be manufactured. What came first: the song and the hook or
the post-punk packaging it is dressed up in?
White Lies hail/originate
from Ealing, London a place where I know a lot of people, all of which inhabit
varying degrees of trait but none of which necessarily assemble fetishes
towards mental playgrounds. Ealing is
way out west, an area of London
that does not strictly resemble the capital.
It’s on the tube but fails to command or maintain the bright lights of
the city. As a result it has a
suburban, grim feel. This perhaps
explains White Lies mindset.
Thesaurus moment:
worsen.
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