Words by Justin Turford
Every now and then we receive a record that betrays our many blind spots in music (the more you discover the more you realise how much you don’t know) and to be honest, this is what we live for. A light into a cultural corner that hasn’t spoken to us musically before has been lit and it comes from the remarkable Bosnian cellist, singer and composer Lakiko (real name Lana Kostić) on her stunning, deeply emotional debut album 'What To Do, How To Live'.
The songs are sung mainly in Bosnian using a vocal technique from the Sevdalinka tradition but this is no roots album, the past, the present and an uncertain future reside together in an at times, claustrophobic, haunting intensity. Sevdalinka (or Sevdah) music, is a thousand year old traditional genre of folk music originating from Bosnia and Herzegovina and is an elemental part of the Bosniak (Bosnian Muslims) identity and culture.
Musically, the genre is characterized by a slow or moderate tempo and intense, emotional melodies. Sevdalinka songs are very elaborate, emotionally charged and are traditionally sung with passion and fervor. The combination of Oriental, European and Sephardic elements make this type of music stand out among other types of folk music from the Balkans. (source - Wikipedia)
Much of the potency of the record comes from Lakiko’s courage to explore the pain that she feels as a Bosnian living away from home, a home still at threat from within and without. Sevdah shares much of the melancholy of the Portuguese word saudade - a word for yearning that interestingly shares the same etymological source.
"My 'loudest' feeling is that I can't change anything, and I don't want to accept those rules of the game. After all, I left Sarajevo. That's why I always have to point out that I have no right to criticise or say anything. But even though I left Sarajevo and BiH, it didn't leave me, so I'm still dealing with it through music".
Credit: Oliver Look
Her musical identity as Lakiko the artist was born from an intriguing combination of sources. Having trained as a classical cellist in Bremen and Bern, she decided to engage with science as another way to delve into herself. Connecting to an EEG machine at the neurology department in Biel, the cellist “experimented with exercising her free will using instruments, simultaneously using her brain waves as a score. The resulting material led to a series of live shows across Europe and it re-framed her musical outlook with a shower of new influences and sounds shaping her musical being. Bosnian folk, off-kilter classical, endless glissandi loops, eerie and fidgeting electronics and the cello, again and again, plucked, scratched, silent and angry.”
The other sources were her feelings of estrangement (she now lives in Switzerland) and of reflection. A reflection on the Balkan experience, the ordeals of war and post-war life. Growing up in Sarajevo, she knows full well the inherent dangers that the future may offer.
The video for the first single ‘Ovce’ is a startling visual poem by director Manfred Borsch that manages to evoke the unseen horrors of conflict. As Lakiko describes it “This song is to be understood as a prognosis that doesn't want to be fulfilled. The intention is to disturb - and it is about the final extermination of Bosnian Muslims and their ignoring of that reality.” The music itself is both poignant and calming. There is little hint of its subject matter (unless you speak Bosnian) but there are dark clouds inside her beautifully mysterious voice and gentle cello playing; a clear suggestion of pain.
‘Tobogan’ with its plucked strings and multi-tracked vocals evokes a hymn of sorts; quietly raging against the lie about social mobility for most people. Subtle touches of electronic glitchy percussion and waves of filtered air add an ethereal edge to the sublime performance. ‘Junaci’ is a song about repetition, our deep human flaw of doing the same thing over and over again, learning little. The complexity of the arrangement and the myriad of ways she plays the cello and sings is quite something, Sevdalinka storytelling at its most contemporary.
‘Testosterone’ is an intricate and theatrical electro-acoustic number, a personal critique of a possible endgame of certain strands of the feminist movement “In the song "Testosterone," which is inspired by Sybille Berg's novel "Brainfuck," I try to point out the possible and undesirable outcome of the feminist movement, which would be the victory of the male principle or “testosterone” for everyone. Just to avoid confusion I consider myself a feminist.” There’s something about this song (and in her artistry generally) that provokes comparisons to PJ Harvey or Palestinian artist Rasha Nahas to me, that peculiar ability to flow from whisper to thunder, allied with sensational musicianship.
Lakiko’s cello soars on the chamber piece ‘Inat U Kamenu’. Much more European classical in structure, the song still retains that feeling of witnessing an ancient and intimate village song being shared with a new generation. The thrilling melodrama ‘The Woman Is Stronger Than the Man in Me’ is the fleeting sister song to ‘Testosterone’ - a mini-opera of grand proportions.
The initial pastoral sweetness of ‘Many Windows’ belies an anger which appears to surface during its rare moments of discordancy. A lovely cinematic instrumental that tries to be comforting but somehow isn’t. A thematic continuation of ‘Ovce’, the aggressively performed‘Nije budućnost za svakoga’ has a touch of Radiohead about it in its structure and chordal drama. Punctuated by a middle part of swirling beauty, elsewhere the cello is attacked with a force unheard on much of the album, the vocals are punchy and direct - “The future is not for everyone”.
‘I Lost My Baby In The Sea’ is a seductive lullaby about an all too common horror. As the raw title suggests, Lakiko doesn’t flinch away from observing and recording the truth. “I saw a Seawatch post on Instagram. A refugee woman had lost her baby in the sea. The spoken parts are real. Real sea, a real dead baby. People who risk everything for a better life. To have a chance. And what do we do about it? Write a song about it? Wow.”
A song for the emigrants, the refugees, the wanderers, ‘Ovo je samo glad’ cries for them. Descending chords and hallucinogenic electronics suggest a journey fraught with danger and uncertainty, be grateful it is not yours. Album closer ‘Ništa’ is an exquisite ballad that may well rip your heart out. An attempt to answer the question of the meaning of life, Lakiko’s musical answer is ambiguously philosophical -“Ništa osim ništa što se mijenja u ništa” (Nothing but nothing that turns into nothing).
Mere descriptions of the songs don’t really do justice to the emotional pull of this album. There is so much humanity and empathy but of course no answers. There is, however, a strong sense of a healing force in Lakiko’s other-worldly voice and her music, a magnetic Balkan blues that has touched me quite deeply. 10/10
The accompanying short film, ‘Lakiko – A Hybrid Idea’, directed by German director Manfred Borsch was shot in various locations in and around Sarajevo and has won awards including Best Director at Stockholm City Film 2022.