There is a startling disparity between the cherubic features of White Lies frontman Harry McVeigh and the sound that emerges when he opens his mouth. Imagine a horror movie in which a prepubescent choirboy, radiating innocence, becomes possessed and starts singing in a rumbling bass dredged up from five fathoms deep: that's the effect McVeigh conveys. It is instantly riveting.
Everything about White Lies suggests this kind of theatrical contrast. Their songs inhabit the territory where goth and pop intersect: first, they conjure an atmosphere of doom from thudding drums, stomach-churning basslines and keyboard notes that swirl in the air like dry ice, then they puncture the gloom with a singalong chorus and razzle-dazzle finale. Their most upbeat song is called Death. McVeigh, who otherwise scowls and clenches his fists, claps along to this one, beaming as the synths twinkle.
If White Lies have a weakness, it's that they stick too closely to what rapidly becomes a familiar template: their nine-song set effectively runs out of ideas halfway through. They are also prone to cliche, or else lavish so much energy on a song's chorus that the verses between feel flat (noticeably on 50 On Our Foreheads). Sometimes, too, the heightened drama of their style veers perilously close to parody, and risks becoming unintentionally hilarious.
But then you are caught again by that demonic voice, singing knotty narratives of murder and regret, exhorting one girl to "put down those scissors", telling another "I'd kill you in a second". With just two singles released, these are early days for White Lies; they could yet fill the footsteps of Joy Division, Interpol and all their other black-clad heroes.