The song, which until 2016 as Lynched formed quartet from Dublin once got its new name, now titles the third album of the Irish folk maelstrom with a wink: False Lankum.
What should be understood in a certain way in an ambiguous way: In addition to three fugues as a binding agent, which somewhere between post-industrial, dark ambient and naturalistic sound installations as interludes, the grandiose flow of an imaginatively so extensive and atmospherically so captivating (and given a total playing time of 70 minutes also surprisingly entertaining) self-contained record are only two pieces by False Lankum Original: Netta Perseus as (on its own in direct relation to the immovable vehemence of the remaining numbers a little less goal-oriented) harmoniously plucked, engagingly reservedly arranged and deceptively soft oppressive gem, which suddenly starts the twist into the cold repetition of the organic groove towards the middle, than would be Swans joined a conjuring Celtic cult, and the 13 minute ending The Turnwho rears up ritualistically, lets the surging melodies of his transcendental songs meet a rhythmic stoicism, which finds its way to the dissonant drone as if in a shamanistic trance – Brand: Angels of LightLisa O‘Neill, Richard Dawson, Jim Ghedi und Fairport Convention hallucinate together from Godspeed You! Black Emperor.
At the front end of the record is what is arguably the even more imposing opening Go Dig My Grave – an evocative lamentation and lamentation spread out like an endless tributary sea across the tonal landscapes of the Highlands by Radie Peat, slowly waking up and dragging itself mystically and sparingly threatening, so archaic and awe-inspiring until the epochal piece skeletonized by squeaking, roaring, atonally bewitching veils as instrumental swell begins to rise and fall, menacing and unreal, like the fever dream of 16 Horsepower von The VVitch In slow motion.
This is then also the first traditional, dem False Lankm takes on – and that the quartet makes completely their own. This is exemplary for everything that follows, refreshingly vital, and yet by no means sounds “modern”, but rather has given new impetus to timelessness with avant-garde seriousness and relaxed devotion. Even if you feel like half a continent and culture away, it’s really impressive what a feeling of familiarity Lankum create – but one fact is that the band’s third work has something genuine and universal about it (even if the lyrics on the record are subjectively less gripping on a personal level than captivating in the observer role). False is of course nothing here, but so authentically the essence of Lankum celebrating. And at least on a meta level, a little smile must be allowed where otherwise little sun shines.
With their incumbent producer John ‘Spud’ Murphy, the anachronists of Lankum – Ian Lynch (vocals, uilleann pipes, concertina, tin whistle, percussion), Daragh Lynch (vocals, guitar, percussion, piano), Cormac Mac Diarmada (vocals, fiddle, viola, banjo, double bass, vibraphone, piano, percussion) , Radie Peat (vocals, bayan, concertina, harmonium, organ, piano, electric organ, harp, mellotron) – recorded an album that is as dark as it is well-rounded, which (especially in its brackets) is at the same time emphatically large, powerful and ambitious but surprisingly also works more accessible and digestible than its two predecessors, even uses a certain kindness here and there and ultimately only has to be reproached that between the overshadowing framework practically every second of the music promises how much more impressive, more exhausting and physically more noticeable, all of which will probably only grow into a real force of nature in the live guise. It could be more radical in this respect, but hardly more consistent.
Clear Away in the Morning shimmers behind Go Dig My Grave namely forgiving, warm acoustic guitars take possession of the cold, the quiet singing even dreams of eerily reveling The Low Anthem and the Decemberists. The repetitively mutating, ecstatic dance on the harmonica by Master Crowley’s panting and stomping steaming up as exuberant end-time pirate music and has more manic charisma in the little finger than other versions in the entire body, meanwhile a sorrowful melancholy and down-to-earth tragedy as in the comforting longing Newcastle penetrates even more seriously.
the heaving Lord Abore and Mary Flynn or that enduring the sufferings of the working class On a Monday Morning are infinitely distressing at their core, but even inviting and catchy, affecting catchy tunes in the shell. The New York Trader on the other hand, only sails benevolently until apocalyptic contours attack the shanty groove with almost drone-metallic ruthlessness and show how many nuances there are False Lankum actually keeps you ready to immerse yourself even after numerous passes, how much the bandwidth of the band has grown again, although “only” the amplitudes of the spectrum have actually been intensified. In this respect it is correct: Lankum the interpretations of the so homogeneously bundled material (despite a few minor blemishes behind the wonderfully untrendy artwork) assimilate quite masterfully, moreover, in the best cases they even pass on these traditionals with a profound certainty that the impressions for current and following generations may be up to could also be formative to a certain extent.
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