McSwiney, NSO/Cavanagh/NCH, Dublin: Marriage of Figaro Overture - Mozart; Valse triste - Sibelius; Capriccio brillant - Mendelssohn; Orpheus in the Underworld Overture - Offenbach; Circus Polka - Stravinsky; Sleeping Beauty Suite (exc) - Tchaikovsky.
Here, conductor James Cavanagh let the music speak for itself and othe whole, this straightforward approach worked quite well.
Mozart's Marriage of Figaro Overture bustled along, with clear textures from the NSO and none of that frantic scramble which so easily blurs this sparkling piece.
Offenbach's Orpheus in the Underworld Overture went well too, and included some fine, vocal-style flexibility from string and wind soloists.
On the other hand, Mendelssohn's Capriccio brillant was not convincing. Veronica McSwiney certainly got stuck into the solo piano part, but equally with orchestra and soloist, something was missing.
As its name implies, this flawed yet engaging piece should dazzle its audience. It seemed that this performance took it too seriously.
Sibelius's Valse triste is a narrative piece, and on this occasion was too steady to capture the gradual drive towards its swirling, sinister climax. But Stravinsky's Circus Polka was a different matter. Written in 1942 for a Balanchine-designed ballet for the 50 elephants of Barnum and Bailey's Circus, it thrives on the sort of playing it received. James Cavanagh played it straight, and wisely let the composer's concluding parody of Schubert's Marche militaire do all the galumphing.
The concert ended with a lively account of the Waltz from Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty Suite. The speed was slightly too fast for this music's theatrical context; but that is common practice in western Europe and America, where Tchaikovsky's ballet music is often treated as an orchestral showpiece. Stokowski (of Disney's Fantasia fame) has a lot to answer for.
Martin Adams
Kinky Friedman/Vicar St, Dublin:
Kinky Friedman wants it every way. A cigar-chomping Texan Jew whose satirical country songs of the 1970s veered dangerously between silliness and solemnity, his later literary output has been described as "Raymond Chandler on drugs".
He has sworn off the nose candy, however, ("I was doing enough Peruvian marching powder to decorate a large nativity scene," he once admitted) and now the merciless self-promoter writes a monthly magazine column, runs the Utopia Animal Rescue Ranch, markets salsa and has been improbably endorsed by both President Bush (the younger) and his predecessor Bill Clinton. You couldn't make this stuff up.
Or could you? The biggest failing of Friedman's (eventual) appearance at Vicar St was an inability to live up to his legend. Blurring the line between fantasy and reality as the protagonist of his own detective novels, Friedman's politics are similarly nebulous. Is his anti-feminist ditty Get Your Biscuits in the Oven and Your Buns in the Bed wildly polemical, or as unedifying as the sub-Benny-Hill humour of Ol' Ben Lucas (who "had a lot of mucus/Coming right out of his nose")? Tiresome shenanigans with game-show-host-voiced compadre, Little Jewford, are as amusing as the Holocaust. His songs about the Holocaust are infinitely better, but the sombre Ride 'Em Jewboy is treated as a drink-fetching interlude by the half-full venue.
Lurching between dusty comic ballads, a reading from his latest tome and this but-seriously-folks quotient only highlights the musical shortcomings of Friedman's trio. Jewford's wheezy melodica, unctuous keyboards and desperately unfunny kazoo work leave the show's pyrotechnics solely to Friedman's Cuban cigar.
"I'm not supporting their economy," he quips, "I'm burning their fields."
Country king of the one-liner he may be, but likewise, They Ain't Making Jews Like Jesus Anymore can't go further than an inspired title. Comedy also means knowing when to stop.
Peter Crawley
