Irish Times writers review Cuchulainat the Tower Street Theatre in Belfast; the RTE Philharmonic Choir, NCC, RTE NSO/Mannat the National Concert Hall in Dublin; Snoop Doggand P Diddyat the Point Theatre in Dublin; and Jenny Wilsonat the Village in Dublin.
Cuchulain
Tower Street Theatre, Belfast
Down the years, the creative team of director Zoe Seaton and magician/illusionist Paul Bosco McEneaney has conjured up a host of truly magical theatrical experiences for small children. In their latest production for Cahoots NI, they have sought to implant in young imaginations the legendary feats of Ulster's original superhero, the great warrior Cuchulain.
They have wrenched the story out of misty Celtic mythology and pitched it into a rock'n'roll reincarnation. And they wrap it up in a deliberately average one-man show, presented by a wannabe actor, resplendent in tartan trousers and yellow T-shirt. While adults may appreciate the inverted humour of this goofy play-within-in-a-play, in which five actors - Jamie Bower, Eric Higgins, Andrew Porter, Keith Singleton and Mary Wells - play themselves, it is difficult to see how it satisfies the expectations of the target audience.
Among the magical flourishes and illusions, screen projections are used to re-enact heroic exploits and battle scenes in a clinical arm's-length manner. When the superhero eventually appears on stage, it is as a rather ordinary, human-sized figure, far removed from the great, unassailable hulk of popular legend.
Snippets from other familiar tales pop up fleetingly, with scant introduction or examination - Queen Maeve and the Cattle Raid of Cooley, the curse of Macha and the doomed friendship of Cuchulain and Ferdia. And finally comes a serious message - that unimaginably terrible deeds are committed in time of war. The show is soon to be performed on the Imagination Stage in Washington DC as part of a Northern arts showcase, prefacing the Smithsonian Folklife Festival in July. Quite what American audiences will make of this contemporary multi-media make-over of Irish legend remains to be seen. - Jane Coyle
RTÉ Philharmonic Choir, NCC, RTÉ NSO/Mann
NCH, Dublin
Elgar - The Dream of Gerontius.
Elgar was reluctant to have his The Dream of Gerontiusdescribed as an oratorio. Expression and intensity are far closer to opera than to oratorio; and the challenges of virtuosity and physical stamina are essential components of the work's transcendence. Its uniqueness is underlined by the fact that no music composed in England has had more written about it, with the telling exception of Handel's Messiah.
This performance was openly dramatic. Andrew Rees was the most vivid and intense Gerontius I have heard in some time. As the Priest and as the Angel of the Agony, Matthew Best lived up to his name, through arresting power, plus timing that fitted his authority role to a tee.
Just three days before the concert, Cécile van de Sant was announced as the replacement mezzo for an indisposed Karen Cargill. In the role of the Angel, she made an unfailingly beautiful sound, but also, at some crucial moments, several disturbing slips of timing. However, she redeemed all that in a lovely account of the Angel's Farewell.
With the RTÉ Philharmonic Choir on strong form, even in the technical terrors of the Demon's Chorus, and with the National Chamber Choir impeccable as the semi-chorus, this was a chorally strong performance.
It was strong instrumentally too. The rounded attack and pointed detail that Paul Mann encouraged from the RTÉ National Symphony Orchestra was generally effective during a well-paced account of the Prelude and in the quasi-symphonic structure of Part One.
However, in the looser structure of Part Two, the combination of dramatic tension and pointed detail emphasised the moment, and undermined expansive momentum. That was unfortunate, for it meant that the overall impact was less than might otherwise have been achieved from singing and playing that was often impressive. - Martin Adams
Snoop Dogg and P Diddy
Point, Dublin
Even in hip-hop, a genre of music not renowned for sober restraint, you can have too much of a good thing. This may be the reason why, somewhere late in the third hour of this joint performance from two of the biggest pseudonyms in the business, audiences began to flee The Point in droves.
Such is the fate of hip-hop in 2007, its pre-eminence as the most proudly capitalist player in the music industry now losing ground to the resurgence of Emo Inc. and Allied Alt-Rock. In the face of stiff competition, the canny businessman knows the benefits of a merger, and so we have an alliance between Snoop Dogg and P Diddy, or, to put the partnership in its most stirring terms, between the Gangsta and the CEO.
It almost works. The pretence at calming hip-hop's West Coast and East Coast rivalry is at least 10 years too late to have any significance - certainly, their sartorial differences now seem irreconcilable - while dividing their stage time into even shifts (ensuring neither partner comes off as the bigger G) simply slows everything down.
Still they make a good fist of it; Diddy heroically plugging his new aftershave and new album, making frequent entreaties that "Dublin Ireland" wave its hands in the air (like it just don't care). Dublin Ireland duly complies, still cheering his "I'm the first black Irish" gag after its umpteenth reiteration, objecting neither to pre-recorded contributions from his guest stars (Christina Aguilera, Busta Rhymes etc) or even a pre-recorded Olé Olé chorus, which has to be a first.
Snoop, meanwhile, the bigger star and the better rapper, deserves special credit for not only gaining entry to the country (the UK leg was cancelled when Snoop was denied a visa to Britain) but also for managing to withstand the constant sexual harassment from a group of scantily clad dancers who greatly outnumber him.
It's so ludicrously overblown that it's all quite fun, but so mercilessly extended it becomes fatiguing. Tellingly, though, their biggest hits just don't fit together. Diddy's I'll Be Missing Youis a tribute to the eternal importance of The Notorious BIG; Snoop's What's My Nameis a tribute to the eternal importance of Snoop. Brothers in arms they may be, but this stage ain't big enough for the both of them. - Peter Crawley
Jenny Wilson
Village, Dublin
Nothing about Jenny Wilson should work. Not her dress sense, not her stage show and certainly not her music. Any Swedish singer who combines the fizzy bounce of pop with the heavy drag of lyrical gloom, and might be described - at a slight stretch - as "Abba meets Ingmar Bergman", presents a curious puzzle. Wilson, however, who matches a charity-shop summer ensemble with white lace gloves, finds disarming ways to solve it.
Performing with her guitarist (and sister), Sara Wilson, and her bassist Andreas Söderström (tonight rocking the circa-1970s Argentinian goalie look, presumably on a dare), Wilson is impossible to second guess. Her opening number, Crazy Summer, is a quietly menacing mantra. Her follow-up is a shrill musing about the death of a friend. A Hesitating Cloud of Despairdoesn't get much cheerier.
Through it all Wilson cuts a peculiar figure; perfectly polite but given to issuing sharp commands. This is precisely what the occasion demands though, and, faced with a modest attendance of chatty and inattentive hipsters, Wilson comes off like an indie-rock Mary Poppins: "Come a bit closer," she instructs and - spit spot! - we obey, dragging our tables and chairs towards the stage.
That weird combination of the prim and impulsive is in the music too. Summer Time - The Roughest Timehas an ants-in-the-pants disco itch and a nicely damp electronic patter, but it is essentially a depressive's answer to Billie Holiday: The livin', it turns out, ain't so easy. It's not for nothing then, that Wilson hugs close to childhood memories and school yard flash backs - the roughest days of your life.
Common Around Here, stripped down to just her guitar and an archly affecting lyric about bullying, and Let My Shoes Lead Me Forward, a strutting piece of synth pop about throwing off "the things they learned me", are the musical expression of a paradox; confident about being awkward. That the latter is her floor-filler brings some sense to the gauche approach: it may seem odd, deadpan irony in a Scandinavian accent, but Wilson knows that even misfits want to dance. - Peter Crawley
