Irish Timescritics review Dervishat Tripod and Reverend and the Makersat The Academy
Dervish. Tripod
Returning to the terrain they've occupied so effortlessly for the bones of two decades now, after their fleeting foray into the netherworld of Eurovision, Dervish emerged, unscathed and with their collective sense of humour still intact. Cathy Jordan's diplomatic skills have always been a big asset to the band, and her blithe sidelong references to the hairpin bend which their career trajectory negotiated almost a year ago was a canny pre-emptive strike that banished all further musings on the subject.
Dervish's strengths have always been in the live arena: their bold song choices countering and complementing their highly orchestrated tune sets. Liam Kelly's flute and whistles are crucial to Dervish's sound, his keen control and fluid style creating a buffer against which so much else can ricochet with freewheeling ease. Tom Morrow's fiddle was Kelly's ideal compañero for much of the evening, although at times it got lost in a busy mix of guitar, bouzouki, bodhrán and accordion.
Most of Dervish's tune sets offer master classes in inventive interpretation. The Bealtaine Set married reels and hop jigs in a bristling union and yet John Blessings lured the band, along with special guests, Seamie O'Dowd and Rick Epping, into rabid overdrive that drowned the distinctiveness of the tunes.
Cathy Jordan's belated solo performance of Crucán Na bPáiste was a timely reminder of the subtle strength of her own voice, an asset that can go unnoticed amid the band's heavy arrangements at times. Their cover of Gypsies, Tramps And Thieves stripped the sensuality from Cher's original, and the video backdrop depicting Travellers did not tally with the essentially nocturnal theme of the song. Dervish's decision to back most of their set list with graphics that varied from poor quality animation to soft focus landscape shots were cringe-inducing: a tactic that might work with an expatriate audience, but proved an ingratiating imposition on home turf. - SIOBHÁN LONG
Reverend and the Makers, The Academy, Dublin
Exactly how many prophets does one generation need? The Streets, The Enemy and The Twang all specialise in relating the minutiae of society's ills through their songs.
Joining them in the working class social commentary booth is Jon McClure (the self-declared Reverend), a Sheffield native and good mate of Arctic Monkey Alex Turner (who co-wrote and sang on Reverend and the Makers' debut album).
Considering that the confident, bordering on cocky, 25-year-old has so much to say for himself, it's bewildering why he chooses to wrap it all up in such amazingly out-of-date electro-funk workouts. Yet, with a tireless energy, McClure and his six-piece band (The Makers) almost succeeded in making us see the light at his first Dublin gig.
Urged on at every juncture, the crowd danced frenetically for the duration of the set, and the Reverend's ad-libbed shout of "Bertie Ahern, you rat", during The State of Things only endeared him further to his congregation.
McClure's lyrics, covering the drudgery of nine-to-five life, gambling, English tourists on package holidays, unwanted pregnancies and domestic abuse, manage the feat of telling us things we already know or have heard before and making it sound revelatory.
Filling the songs with a selection of dodgy and down-trodden characters, most of his exhortations can be boiled down to repeated chants : "don't forget you can get off the conveyor" (The Machine) or "just be like everybody else" (Heavyweight Champion of the World).
After a rousing He Said He Loved Me, McClure dashed outside, guitar in hand, and, stationed in front of Arnotts, attempted an "impromptu" (well, he does it after every show) busking session.
Surrounded by eager fans, camera phones at the ready, the group sing-along could not even be disrupted by a passing Luas. Maybe this was the Second Coming after all. - BRIAN KEANE
