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…