It’s a weary autumn night, and probably the best time of year to go to a Lankum show, their chilling blend of traditional Irish music and dread-drenched doom-folk needing no better setting, except perhaps for a candle-lit derelict church in their homeland of Ireland, sea spray beating upon the windows.
Marking the folk troupe’s biggest UK show to date, tonight, Hammersmith’s Eventim Apollo is bustling with people, many of whom are eager to pour out their love for the band just as swiftly as the bar are able to pour them pints. The atmosphere is rowdy, and the eccentricities of support act prog folk singer-songwriter Richard Dawson perfectly primes the strange night ahead with his off-kilter musings on AI futures and eerie ghost stories.
Reeling in the delirium while instilling a different kind of madness is Lankum. The stage is dark, except for one blood red spotlight bleeding onto frontwoman Radie Peat, sat over her harmonium, beginning the anticipatory, rueful vocal melody of The Wild Rover. As the track builds, lights flash dramatically to the band’s foot stomps (the light show tonight is consistently dazzling) as they weave in multi-part harmonies ahead of its overwhelming, instrumental climax.
These tense mounds of sound are one of Lankum’s most appealing qualities. Their instruments carve out peaks of audible horror, the sense of dread so palpable that with a less excitable crowd, it would be deliciously disturbing. Unfortunately, though the room’s admiration for the band is surely appreciated, their continuous heckling and screams often cut the tension and break the magic. At one point, one gig-goer even shouts to multi-instrumentalist and singer Ian Lynch to end one of his endearing stories, and get on with the set. Seemingly unbothered by the audience’s reaction, Lynch jokes how the interrupting screams perfectly capture the band’s feeling of ‘existential dread’.
Nevertheless, Lankum are a wonder to watch. Peat, who addresses the crowd today in a softly-spoken voice, even admits to being sick, though there’s no clear sign of it when she sings. “It’s great so many of you want to hear this weird music”, she says. Weird is certainly one word for it, but it’s also highly moving, oftentimes haunting.
The Rocks of Palestine - Lankum’s stunning rewrite of Arcady’s The Rocks of Bawn in honour of the ongoing tragedy in Gaza - draws tears from the crowd, before they join in “free Palestine” chants. The jaunty Master Crowley’s - written to soundtrack the image of magician Aleistar Crowley dancing in Ireland in the 1800’s - is a heathenistic, dark delight. Amidst the dread, there’s also moments of wistful beauty with On A Monday Morning. There’s euphoric joy, as the outro of the jig-like The Turn sees the crowd stand in ovation, dancing with arms outstretched; it’s a song that makes you feel like everything is suddenly right in the world, a shield from the darkness before the finale, Go Dig My Grave, and its haunting melody that casts one of many spells tonight, leaving just about everyone staring open mouthed in bewilderment.
It’s an evening of many contrasts; dread and delight, comfort and anxiety. They’re feelings that prove that a Lankum show is more than just a performance, but an experience that takes you through the whole orbit of human emotion. While next time we can only hope that their crowd learns to shut up for a bit, we know that whatever the setting, Lankum will continue to cement themselves as one of the most exciting, fascinating faces of modern folk.
