Live Review

The Lines – Whistlebinkies, Edinburgh

• 20th Oct 2010

A) Whistle Binkies is an underground lair owned by deranged primary school teacher and B) The Lines sounds like the type of name a lazy indie band would conjure up, mirroring their lack of musical invention.

One of the above statements is true.

Unfortunately, it is not A.

As much as I wish Whistle Binkies was a cuddly playground with pictures of Jake Tweenie and Po hugging, it was in fact an old fashioned, Cavern-style music venue with burnt orange lighting and silver-tongued whisky drinkers.

Disappointingly though, The Lines lived up to my prejudiced name-based interpretation and to answer the age old question of “What’s in a name?” well, this name mainly consisted of dry clichés and tired, bashed and bruised indie. The kind our time must forget.

It’s not The Lines fault though. They’re perfect at what they do; that half-emotive strain of alternative rock that bobs into a half-chant and converts into a half-catchy chorus. They are the essential half-band for the half-generation. The generation that clings tight to repeats of summer festivals on BBCThree and buys band t-shirts from HMV but never from the gig.

The half they’re missing; genuine invention and an authentic stab at something may come with time and their set, though contrived and devoid of sparkle, wit and whimsy is for sure, energetic and tight. Tight as they come. Tighter than Ebenezer Scrooge’s wallet. Is tightness enough though?

With songs like “Circles” probably not. The stale love-juice of One Night Only and the worst grooves of The Enemy are poured into a transparent concoction that once sniffed; licked and downed is enough to make you want a glass of The Wombats, anything to dispel the commercial laziness.

The Lines live performance feels like a punch in the face, square on the nose, by an orphaned mouse. Its tiny, futile arms shudder against your skin and by all accounts cause genuine and frustrating pain but then you remember, its only a mouse and what’s more it doesn’t know its Mummy or Daddy, any retaliation is simply unnecessary.

Its why I will finish by describing the performance as “expected” The half-arrogance can be expected as can the half-nice coats as can the fact they wore these coats on stage but ultimately The Lines are a product of a factory and an industry that continues to squirt our fruitless indie bands, knowing that no matter what they’ll gather enough girls, fans, fathers and drunk people to make every night seem like fun.

It’s heartless, hopeless, tedious and sad. But it’s a formula that works and who can blame The Lines for entering the industries most fruitless void. They get girls, beers and seemingly fashionable coats. Enough for any self-respecting son of The Libertines age to sell their soul to the stadium for.

Now, I need some wood, a spring and some cheese. I’m gonna show that punk mouse who’s boss.