An eclectic mix of music and modern dance in today's reviews.
Madam T
Everyman Palace Theatre, Cork
Ingenuity of design enhanced by lighting effects ensure the visual impact of Meridian Theatre Company's production of Madame T; to the imaginative skills of set and costume designer Colin Falconer and lighting designer Paul Denby must be added the considerable talents of soprano Sonya Keogh, mezzo-soprano Teresa la Rocca and bass Richard Wiegold.
These, in a work described as a "bordello opera", are crucial to the theme chosen by writer and director Johnny Hanrahan, and they do not fail him. Yet while there can be little doubt about the bordello component, the operatic content may not be quite enough to justify the description, for there is a suspicion that composer and musical director Cormac O'Connor has under-estimated the differences between music and sound design.
It's an electronic opera, sung to a pre-recorded score which, even at its quietest, surges under the main themes, interrupting even the lyrical choral passages with thrumming discords; perhaps it's the marriage of the two conventions which doesn't quite make a credible fusion - certainly the arias, duets and choruses don't develop satisfactorily, maybe because there just aren't enough of them.
The professionalism of the leading singers is not surrendered to the general amplification and is matched by the adult chorus of Cork Opera Works, although the junior choir is not used to advantage. Neither, it has to be said, is the story itself. Madame Tellier's club-like brothel closes when she is invited to the First Holy Communion of her niece; her whores are received by the simple country folk as sophisticates from the big city, but for them the ceremony of innocent joyful faith is a catalyst of memory and regret.
Despite his occasionally lively libretto, Hanrahan gives a respectful reading of de Maupassant's famous short story but distributes the telling among too many people; without a scaffolding as supportive as its original form, both purpose and poignancy fade, although de Maupassant's benign explanation of the function of the brothel survives happily.
Until April 29th
Mary Leland
Charles Lloyd
Vicar Street, Dublin
He doesn't say much onstage, but American saxophonist Charles Lloyd has many other ways of expressing himself. Over the course of almost two hours, Lloyd and his band colour in the lines on what turns out to be a quite extraordinary story.
He's the latest luminary to feature in the current Improvised Music Company/Jazz Architects season and he's probably the closest thing Manfred Eicher's fabled ECM label has in its ranks to a soulman.
A long, unorthodox career, which began with Lloyd hobnobbing on stages in his native Memphis with the likes of Bobby Bland and BB King, and includes a 20-year lay-off before his enthralling resurgence in fortunes in recent years, means there are many shades to his tale. Add in a lineage which includes Cherokee, Mongolian and Irish ancestors and you have the stuff of a fascinating character.
While the band-leader keeps the wheels turning in different directions throughout, even a sixtysomething master requires accomplices to carry some of the load. The players with him onstage are more than equal to this task, a quite wonderful trio of musicians who possess deft, sure, exhilarating touches.
You can hear their rare empathy throughout, particularly in the communication between drummer Eric Harland and bassist Robert Hurst. A subtle gentle roll from Harland at one stage provokes more mirth from the audience than a skilful one-liner, but his two expansive solos towards the end are astonishing for their power and panache.
When you're not humming at the close-knit relationship between the rhythm section, you're clocking the contexts which pianist Geri Allen is applying to each piece. She's a wonderful player, whose knack of bringing out nuances which would otherwise lie buried beneath the surface gives the music a different emphasis each time around.
Concentrating on his new album, the excellent "Jumping the Creek", it's a show which is by turns mellow, playful and wildly intense. Sometimes, as Lloyd's sway and swing urges the band to check in at a higher level, it seems that the playing comes with extra-terrestrial settings. As Lloyd tends, fashions and shepherds each piece towards its conclusion, the band expanding its structure with confident authority without diluting or altering the narrative, all you can do is revel in music which is as high as it is wide and deep.
Jim Carroll
Just for Show
O'Reilly Theatre, Dublin
Although the title of the company, DV8, comes from "dance video 8", the quick mental hop to the allusion with the word "deviate" isn't far off. For nearly 20 years, the company has tugged and wrenched at boundaries of modern dance to put meaning back into it, as their artistic policy says, to create something visually and conceptually quite astonishing.
Director and choreographer Lloyd Newson's production Just for Show presented a visual feast with its stylish and exceptional use of video integration into the dance. Prefaced with the quote "To be able to live, one needs illusions", the piece created an atmosphere in which nothing was straightforward, as the video installation infiltrated almost every aspect of the performance to simulate a world clouded by the constructs of the mind.
The utterly stylish and skilful use of video, coupled with ingenious lighting, cannot be praised too highly. The piece continually provoked astonishment and admiration such as in the opening, in which words flowed rapidly across the stage on which you could just make out the dancers; a stunning solo/duet by a male dancer in front of a mirror in which it was impossible to make out which one was real, which imaginary - or were they both a fata morgana? - and the creation of different murky, elusive environments in which dancers faded in and out of vision. A series of sexy pas de deux in which a male and female dancer worked themselves up violently to a climax contained intriguing manipulation of the dancer's red dress, which in being pulled about was reminiscent of the visual distortion of the real in films such as The Matrix - another examination of the illusion of existence.
Various sections of direct spoken interaction with the audience, however, although confidently realised by performers Tanja Liedtke and Paul White, detracted from the seductive trompe l'oeil of the piece.
The magician, Miguel Muñoz, who made occasional appearances to conjure paper flowers and cards seemingly out of thin air, added to the mystifying aspect of the piece, which was at its best when merging the excellent dancers with the atmospheric ambiguity created by the video design.
Christine Madden
Loudon Wainwright III
Vicar Street, Dublin
It's a sorry affair when your past catches up on you. And poor old Loudon Wainwright III, as he heads towards the 60-mark, has a past with lots of sorrys. We know this because he writes about them and the people involved, his family and friends, but mostly his family. But what must really get up Loudon's nose is that this American satirist, chronicler and all-round loveable curmudgeon has become a key figure in his own soap - the Wainwright Family featuring son Rufus, the gay genius; Martha, the vengeful daughter; Kate, the forsaken wife and Loudon, all-round villain. That's just the main characters. Such is the richness of our hero's story that there is no shortage of supporting parts.
The irony is not lost on him. He opened Thursday night's reasonably attended show at Vicar Street with My Greatest Fan (from his new album Here Come the Choppers), a typically withering portrait of someone who has adopted him. We all laughed.
But as with so much of Wainwright's material, whether it be knockabout tunes on current affairs or poignant family portraits, there is an unsettling edge which hangs around long after the chuckles have subsided.
He hung around for about 90 minutes, finally calling it a night when he gave in to the nostalgic will of the audience and gave them what they really wanted, a taste of their past with The Swimming Song and an offer to meet all, including "the girls", at the Forty Foot the next day. A flash of his exaggerated rapacious grin and he was gone.
Joe Breen
