This debut mini-LP transcends physical location and encompasses a variety of moods...
It’s no wonder Lincoln leave few clues about their origins. They’re named after a confederate partriarch in an obscure Jim Thompson novel and their stated aim is to recreate a country-drenched Deep South soundscape. Which is quite a task when you come from Stoke Newington.
Thank the Lord, then – and hold the ammunition – that this debut mini-LP transcends physical location and encompasses a variety of moods: frustration, world-weariness and, surprise, melancholy.
The main device that places Lincoln miles from mundane indie fumblings, though, is restrained guitar noise, not to mention a reliance on horns that could’ve come straight out of a New Orleans funeral march, by way of the late jazz arranger, Gil Evans.
Whether the listener is immersed in the aggressive ‘Snake Heads’, ensnared within the sweet and
low title track, or tickled by the way ‘Bullet Proof’ condenses paranoid urban angst into an understated and summery instrumental patchwork, clichés
are conspicuous by their absence.
If there’s an Achilles heel here, it’s in the form of sometimes numbing introspection, and the way the outside world is ignored in favour of intimate dissections of relationships. But then, who knows what fresh hell would be unleashed, should Lincoln wear politics
on their sleeves.