The Dublin doom-folk favourites crown a momentous year with a magnificent assault on the senses and a set rich in hypnotic tales of woe
Roundhouse, London
By Kitty Empire
The Dublin doom-folk favourites crown a momentous year with a magnificent assault on the senses and a set rich in hypnotic tales of woe
Outside, brightly dressed people head to festive functions. Inside the often dimly lit north London venue, the focus is more on death and suffering.
To be clear, no audience members are physically harmed tonight by Lankum’s mantric take on traditional Irish music – although the Dublin foursome’s often confrontational acoustics are part of their considerable appeal. It’s the songs that tell of murders (multiple) and suicides (at least two), of grief and dread. There are mutinies at sea (the traditional The New York Trader). On land, travails are rife, nowhere more so than on Rocky Road to Dublin. Lives blighted by addiction regularly stud the band’s set list, which mixes originals, covers and avant-garde rearrangements of folk songs. This is their biggest ever show to date – a sold-out 3,000 capacity – the culmination of a year that saw the release of Lankum’s fourth and most assured album, False Lankum. That record made them, briefly, favourites for the Mercury prize (which went to Ezra Collective); it has ended 2023 with high rankings in many albums of the year lists.
Folk music has always been gristly with suffering. Featuring several vocalists who each play several instruments, Lankum have made their name retelling these old tales of woe with compassion and no little anger. For the band – named after the traditional song False Lankum, a variant of Child Ballad No 93, in which terrible things happen to a baby – ancient afflictions remain horrifyingly contemporary.
Take The Wild Rover, their mesmeric set opener, drawn from their 2019 album The Livelong Day. Thought to have its origins in the 17th century, the tune has travelled widely as a drinking song; it’s a chant with Celtic away fans. Sung by the hypnotic Radie Peat, with meaty harmonies from the rest of the band, the Lankum version foregrounds the bitter regret at having wasted on drink the riches that could have bought “10 acres”, a roof and warm clothing.
Even sadder is Lankum original The Young People, a song introduced as being “about the frailty of human life”. Sung by guitarist Daragh Lynch, it starts with someone “swinging” (from a rope) and reminds us, with close harmonies and a pileup of instruments, that life is very short. There’s time, too, for expressions of solidarity with the Palestinian people tonight. Lynch pointedly asks the guffawing audience how it’s going, us having a new king.