- I was not familiar with Lankum until I heard the first mournful strains of their latest album, False Lankum. The name of the song in particular is Go Dig My Grave and is quite the introduction to the Irish quartet. An interpretation of a classic ballad -as are most here- it doesn’t play like any of the other versions I’ve heard out there; and there are so many, I could write quite extensively on that topic alone. Hear especially the 1960’s Jean Ritchie rendition, by which this one was inspired, but that one was accompanied by banjo and is very much more Appalachian sounding. Always melancholy, Lankum have chosen to dig deeper into their heart of darkness with their new record and what that sounds like is folk music as interpreted by Einstürzende Neubauten. Go Dig My Grave, for instance, is set to a crushing, industrial beat, punctuating the enervating drone Lankum have long favoured. Spoiler alert if you don’t know the song - consider yourself fair warned: it pounds like the blood in the ears of its protagonist, as she hangs herself for lost love and thunders like the carriages of the train, where you’d find the fickle ‘railroad boy’ who was her man. Pay heed especially to that last part, for I’ve a feeling it’s why this record is called False Lankum.

Lankum is not actually an Irish name, but a perversion of the English Lamkin and that has its own lengthy story behind it. Lamkin is a villain, in some versions of his titular ballad a disgruntled mason, in others a shadowy ne’er do well and in others an otherworldly, malevolent and literally blood-thirsty spirit. In all versions, as far as I know, he is bent on murdering a mother and her babe, sneaking into their house, of a night, and achieving his aim with grizzly efficiency. You can hear Steeleye Span do a version called Long Lankin, if you like. The murdering itself they set to a jig, a stylistic choice for which I almost have no words. 

At any rate, False Lankum indeed. Very many of the song choices the band make for their latest dwell on the duplicitous, sad and often alcoholic choices of their characters and it’s hard not to make a connection between this band of cutthroats and the choice of title. Just listen to second single New York Trader, a salad lesson about the risks of going sailing with a murderer. The captain of a cutter “both stout and strong” turns out to have fewer of those qualities himself, morally speaking. His passengers and crew set out on a voyage to “Amerikee” little knowing that the boat’s master has deliberately underprovisioned for the voyage, saving himself some sovereigns, no doubt, but condemning many of the travellers to starvation. Callous though he might be, the captain is afrighted by a voice in the night, warning him of an impending doom awaiting his ship and himself. Losing his nerve he confesses to his bosun not only his present crimes, but his chequered past, where he murdered his master, stole his wife, similarly disposed of his own family, children included and let his servant hang for the crime. Though the bosun counsels secrecy, fearing the consequences if such revelations were made known on board, nothing can impede the foretold doom and a mighty storm washes nearly all on board to their untimely demise. Of those few remaining, the bosun in a fit of rage points the finger of blame at the villainous captain who is promptly thrown overboard to join the others, blue and lifeless, at the bottom of the sea. A lesson has presumably been learnt by all as the once “stout and strong” New York trader limps into port,  finally arriving in “Amerikee”.

Dark stuff! Lankum have been quoted, saying “we wanted to create more contrast on the record so the light parts would be almost spiritual and the dark parts would be incredibly dark, even horror inducing.” I’d argue the horror inducing elements have been thoroughly achieved. As if the songs of suicide, jealous rage and betrayal, fraud, depression, poisoning and murder weren’t enough, they’re often connected, bound together by ropes of thick, instrumental darkness, in the ‘fugues’ of the tracklisting, which are less music, than throbbing, atonal dirges. One of the sweeter, if that’s the right word for it, is the long outro to Go Dig My Grave, a nil vox recreation of “the Irish tradition of keening (from the Irish caoineadh (that’s pronounced keenyard in Ulster) – a traditional form of lament for the deceased. Regarded by some as opening up ‘perilous channels of communication with the dead’, the practice came under severe censure from the catholic church in Ireland from the 17th century on.” …and yet Ireland has always seemed such a happy place.

The lighter moments, I think, would not be so by many standards, though they’ve been widely commented on in the press (hello, you hopelessly optimistic types at The Guardian). Bittersweet at best, they revolve around heartache or wasting life savings on booze and not thinking about the consequences until the sober morning; or both. A song like the traditional reel Master Crowley’s might come closest to genuine frivolity, but even that is split by an instrumental bridge both shadowy and forbidding. Perhaps the best example of this is the album’s final number: a highly extended threnody, The Turn, is one of the band’s originals I believe. The lyrics including such cheery sentiments as “the heart in lumps of charred old chunks it sits inside your chest” or “When this sun is over, when this sun is dead / They’ll take a path in oceans that rattle in your head / The ship’s already moving, it’s never going to stop, the sun meets the horizon as you look upon your lot ”. The chorus, is lyrically, probably of a piece:  “Turn, we’ll find better days / Burn to the ground / For it’s the only way / We’ll make a sound.” Its harmonies however are as warm as the promised flames and barrel along to what sounds like a dulcimer. Even that almost bipolar sweetness is finally betrayed, overwhelmed by a roaring chaos that puts the lie to any hope of final reprieve.

You know, I’ve looked and I’ve never found Lankum actually singing Lamkin or one of its many variations. Certainly it’s not on this record which so clearly draws attention to the wretched man. Where is he then, still hiding in the moss? Awaiting the dark hour to knock upon the door, seeking both mother and babe and every drop of their blood? I don’t think I needed much convincing that such types are still lurking about. Maybe the darkness in the heart of man will not finally overwhelm us all but what a litany of woe this band have collected, following the trail of destruction left by False Lankum.

- Chris Cobcroft.