Snog some caked-up muppet. Take a piss out your friend till they just batter the fuck outta ya. Get mad as a box of frogs and half langered till you’re absolutely fuckin’ knackered. No sense getting scundered if you’re racked after being locked out of your tree like a monkey who forgot his keys. Cause it’s Patty’s day! We’ve all been out on the lash till we’re all a team of blind cobbler’s thumbs. There’s no judgment here.
[Find a meek and timorous woman that nullifies her unsightly visage by applying unnecessary amount of cosmetics to her physiognomy and give her a kiss. Lampoon and tease a companion until they are provoked into an altercation with you. Imbibe until your senses are partially hindered and illogical and you feel quite tired. Do not become penitent for the soporific effects of intoxication, because it’s St. Patrick’s Day! Many have become befuddled due to excessive drink until they appear unprepossessing. There is no judgment here.]
I’ve met many on St. Patrick’s Day that dredge up whatever heritage they can in order to “prove” their Irishness. The rest of the year they’ll identify with whatever fucking culture they are actually part of. But once a year people hop on the Irish train. Ireland doesn’t mind. Do you know how much capital Guinness and Jameson invest into the Irish economy? While the world thinks of Ireland as a world of stereotypes for a day, Ireland gets to make great art and provide good social programs from the money made off Irish envy. From what I understand, Ireland only asks one thing in return. Don’t drink green beer. It’s weird, not to mention it’s disgusting. Just drink regular beer or whiskey. You think the Irish are running around drinking green fucking beer? Fuck no! And, if you’re going to do that, Ireland asks another thing. Play some real Irish tunes on St. Pats. If you’re really trying to prove your Irishness, stop playing the Boston Celtic “Dropkick Murphys”, and play something beautiful and authentic and something from fucking Ireland! Something profound and real. Something that smells like Belfast Lough and Galway Bay. Something with the heart of the Crown and Temple Bar.
Lankum plays traditional Irish songs. And holy fuck they do it well. This album has a profound heart to it. Its depth goes right into the dark fucking soil of Ireland. The writers of many of these songs are long dead and unknown. But it’s undeniable that they were fucking Irish. I don’t need to speak on behalf of these lyrics. There’s no fucking point to it. These songs and words have already stood the test of time. They’ve proven their worth. Though, I have to say, it’s amazing to hear songs like Peat Bog Soldiers and see the words relate to the terror of our times. This band works in a wonderful harmony. They don’t sing and appear in a single mash. It’s not a choir of unknowns. Each voice is distinct in itself. I can picture the life of each singer. Times spent getting drunk on cider with friends after school. Or family dinners full of laughter, tears, and heartbreak. And when all those voices come together to sing these traditional Irish songs in perfect harmony, they are each a distinct, Irish as fuck, vocal singing together to tell old stories of their home. It’s Irish, through and though. There’s not an ounce of fucking green beer here. It’s pure. It’s unadulterated. It’s real. Open this one up. Drink it in. Fuck, you might even want to be Irish more than one day a year if you do.