Irish Timeswriters review a selection of events
50 Cent
RDS, Dublin
Tony Clayton-Lea
The tribes are out and about: bling blends with tracksuit threads, mini-skirts mix with ugg boots and the tang of rum and vodka is strong enough to strip paint off the walls of the office blocks that flank the venue. 50 Cent might fall into the demographic that flaunts bad dress sense (fact: the colour pink for anyone over the age of 11 just doesn't work) and appears blasé about underage drinking, but there's no doubting the man's sense of empowerment. Here's a guy who came from the wrong side of the tracks and who made good, and who has the crowd in the palm of his hands from the moment he appears on stage.
The capacity crowd adores him, discovering in his every robotic move - arms up and down, hips back and forth - some kind of sensual if repetitive epiphany. The music - which occasionally reaches a very fine bass-heavy groove that is impossible not to bounce along to - is tragically temporal by comparison. On record you can judge 50 Cent's worth by how often and how astutely he delves into soul music's legacy - a little bit of Marvin Gaye here and a hint of Sly Stone there. On stage, any subtleties are lost in the crass bravado of call-and-response hip-hop.
The fatal flaw in 50 Cent's show, however, is lack of moral judgment. While no one in their right mind can expect a commercial hip-hop act - particularly one who flagrantly espouses and glorifies gun culture, casual drug use and the objectification of women - to have any semblance of moral integrity, it nonetheless depresses and disappoints even further that someone so influential would pluck from the audience a boy of approximately 12 years of age and exhort him and the audience to "smoke weed, get drunk and f***".
Call this critic old-fashioned, or just plain old, if you prefer, but such carry-on transgresses certain rules - basic dignity, for one. We like - indeed, welcome - when certain pop-cultural icons break down barriers, but not when it's done without a shred of intelligence or shrewdness.
Such a display of ethical thuggery leaves no one untainted. Least of all 50 Cent.
Running Beast
NCH John Field Room, Dublin
Sara Keating
Historical fiction finds a natural home in Irish culture, where politics have determined how significant events have been remembered: the Easter Rising, the assassination of Michael Collins, Bloody Sunday . . . the examples are endless. The historical material provides an important service to Irish writers, supplying them with contentious dramatic moments from which they can shape creative fictions. But historical fiction can provide an important service to history as well, allowing us to explore various alternative narratives to recorded fact.
Donal O'Kelly's new work, Running Beast, elaborates on the sketchy historical circumstances of the Flight of the Earls, which celebrates its 400th anniversary this year. With scant primary sources recording the event, the various histories since written are based on educated speculation. This provides much room for creative manoeuvre. However, Running Beastis more of an elaboration on accepted fact than a fully-fledged fiction of its own.
Performed as a long narrative poem set to "the music of the war drum beat", Running Beasttakes the audience through the life of Hugh O'Neill, tracing his lineage, his education, his marriages, his political and military exploits, and, finally, his death. Michael Holohan's score shapes an atmospheric soundscape around the descriptive pieces: traditional Irish airs and jigs providing pace for the most dramatic moments, while the uilleann pipes contribute an emotive lament to the performance's chilling finale.
O'Kelly rhapsodises with trademark rhythm and rhyme, sustaining tremendous energy and pace throughout the 90-minute performance. However, despite the live musical accompaniment, O'Kelly fails to find sufficient drama in established fact, his fiction staying within the boundaries of what we do know about the historical event rather than exploiting the historical ambiguity for a deeper penetration of Hugh O'Neill's life. The reason that Brian Friel's Making History, which mines the same material, succeeds so well, is that it uses the historical ambiguity both to deepen the complexity of his fiction, and to suggest that the historical narrative itself is a fiction.
Without any greater conceit to tie the events to, Running Beastis more like an engaging history lesson than an entertaining piece of theatre. A fitting anniversary commemoration, then, but a disappointing dramatic venture.
• Running Beastis at the Ardee Baroque Festival on Nov 17, and at the National Gallery on the Nov 25
Martin, RTÉ NSO/Anissimov
NCH, Dublin
Michael Dervan
Liadov - From the Apocalypse. Prokofiev - Symphony No 3. Philip Martin - Piano Concerto No 3 (The Nine Orders of Angels). Scriabin - Poème de l'extase.
Angels provided the thread running through this RTÉ NSO subscription concert under Alexander Anissimov. In the event, however, the theme didn't quite bind the evening together, and the unusual ordering and sheer length of the programme proved problematic.
Liadov was a creator of exquisite miniatures who may well have influenced the course of music history by turning down a commission - from Diaghilev for the Firebirdballet - that would then launch the spectacular career of Igor Stravinsky.
His From the Apocalypseis one of his less successful orchestral works, generating an atmosphere that's all smoke and mirrors without any real action.
That's not an accusation that could ever be made against Prokofiev's Third Symphony, which the composer created out of material from his failed opera, The Fiery Angel. Anissimov approached both works with the same kind of full-on deliberation, and though this downplayed any sense of binding symphonic force in the Prokofiev, it did serve to highlight both the outrageous raucousness and sheer delicacy the composer explored in this piece.
This was a performance in which the parts were much more impressive than the whole.
Philip Martin's Third Piano Concerto, premiered as recently as last year, was the only one of the evening's works to conjure up any suggestions of angels with white fluffy wings.
The piece is subtitled The Nine Orders of Angelsand Martin presents it as being in three sections and nine movements. The effect in performance, however, is altogether more rhapsodic than that description would suggest.
The at times almost improvisatory air has its appeal, yet the work is at its strongest when the second section whips up a rebarbative toccata.
Elsewhere the writing is often undermined by whiffs of the orchestral equivalent of the enriched harmonies of hotel lounge entertainers. The composer played the solo part with his usual flair.
Scriabin's Poème de l'extaseis one of the most remarkable and individual orchestral works of the first decade of the 20th century. Its orgiastic, egoistic hedonism needs subtle handling, and on this occasion its obsessions sounded repetitive rather than organic.
It was as if Anissimov were somehow intent on dragging it away from the murky mysticism of Scriabin and towards the clearer pictorialism of Richard Strauss.
The National
Olympia Theatre, Dublin
Davin O'Dwyer
A curious backdrop of twinkley gold tinsel, a case of getting their festive decorations up early, is easily the most glamorous thing about New York-based band, The National. That apart, the band seem suitably dishevelled after three consecutive gigs, in Dublin, Belfast and then Dublin again. The six-piece excel at melancholy, doleful indie rock, and their appearance and demeanour clearly show that the despondency is sincere.
Lead singer Matt Berninger, in particular, appears to be the most timorous man in rock - between songs he stands awkwardly with his hands in his pockets, as if waiting for a bus, sheepishly smiling at the adoring crowd.
His rich, baritone voice is what separates The National from other pretenders and while their influences are readily apparent - a dash of Joy Division, a hint of Arab Strap, a tincture of Tindersticks - the band achieves that difficult trick of sounding familiar but not derivative.
The National are one of those acts who have developed a fanatically devoted fan base while keeping a low profile, their most recent albums, 2005's Alligatorand this year's Boxer, both succeeding through word of mouth. Berninger, along with brothers Scott and Bryan Devendorf and Aaron and Bryce Dessner, definitely won't be chasing celebrity, even as their reputation soars.
Berninger's vocals, however, are somewhat lost in the mix, but in any case the crowd sing most of the lyrics. Padma Newsome, the band's sometime violinist/keyboardist, demonstrates more energy than his bandmates combined, throwing himself into his instruments, leaping into centre stage as he ramps songs up to their climaxes.
While the pace slackens in the middle of the set, the band heats the crowd to fever pitch with their last few songs, particularly Fake Empire. The climax is an outstanding Mr Novemberwith Berninger throwing himself into the crowd, carried along by his believing fans, while still managing to bellow the lyrics raised high in the air.
The roar from the crowd at song end is surely one of the loudest and most sustained the Olympia has ever seen.
