A brief look at what is happening in the world of the arts
Henry Rollins
Vicar Street, Dublin
With his thick neck, tree-trunk arms and many tattoos, Henry Rollins cuts an intimidating figure. Front man for cult 1980s punk band Black Flag, and best known for his polemical Liar (an angry song with an even angrier video that got heavy rotation on MTV in the mid-1990s), Rollins might have had a reputation for being the most caustic performer in rock, but in recent years he has become a bit of a Renaissance man, publishing many books, acting in movies and TV, and specialising in spoken word concerts such as this one.
When Rollins says "spoken word", however, he means "stand-up comedy".
An unexpectedly gifted storyteller and comic, his performance proudly wears the influence of Bill Hicks on its muscular chest, savagely critiquing George Bush and the war in Iraq, as well as the Christian right and the reaction to Hurricane Katrina.
From the outset, though, he offers himself as an apologist for the American people. "When you think of me, you think of [ Bush] just a little bit," he says, "so we're poorly represented by this president who can't seem to make words come out of his mouth in the right order." But while Rollins does a mean Dubya impersonation, mocking his malapropisms isn't quite Jon Stewart-level satire.
Indeed, it's his personal stories that work best, especially when he relates how he became a terrorist suspect in Australia (he was reading a book about the Middle East), and a hysterical, digression-filled account of travelling on the Trans-Siberian Express.
The discrepancy between Rollins the angry singer and Rollins the self-deprecating stand-up is marked - he paints himself as foolish, stingy and often helpless. "I'm not a tough guy, I'm not a mean guy, I'm a very nervy guy," he explains.
A poignant account of visiting wounded Iraq war veterans for the USO allows him to finish the show with a reiteration of his main theme.
"It's so hard to defend my wonderful country right now," he says, "but I want you to not give up on America . . . Good night, and good luck."
Davin O'Dwyer
Kruglov, Stukalova
NCH John Field Room, Dublin
The Ukrainian bass Jurij Kruglov and pianist Anastasiya Stukalova have worked together since they met in Prague. Kruglov made his Prague operatic debut in 1990 (he's currently appearing there as Zaccaria in Verdi's Nabucco and Surin in Tchaikovsky's Queen of Spades) and it was in the Czech capital that Stukalova completed her piano studies.
The duo's programme here ranged from Handel up to the Shostakovich pupil Georgy Sviridov, with visitations to Rossini, Bizet, Verdi, Puccini, Tchaikovsky and Mussorgsky, and songs by a handful of minor Russian figures thrown in for good measure.
The opening item, Handel's Ombra mai fu, set the tone. The delivery was pressured and imposing, the voice firm and loud, with not much in the sound to suggest the language being sung was Italian. The Bach/Gounod Ave Maria was even more remarkable, as Kruglov made strange attempts to dramatise this most undramatic of material, even to the point of adding a few tenorish sobs.
Things improved greatly when the programme turned toward Russian music. It's always a pleasure, and a rare one in Dublin, to hear a rewarding match of bass voice and Russian music. Kruglov commands the right vocal quality, the strength and the musical style for this repertoire.
That said, he showed little sense of musical flexibility in his approach, preferring to sing out with consistency and leaving much of the variety of effect to the limited expressivity of his range of acting gestures.
The quiet moment in the middle of A fearful minute and the touches of restraint in Amid the Noise of the Ball, both by Tchaikovsky, suggested realms that were mostly left unexplored.
Stukalova provided rich and resonant colouring in the piano parts, and nimble fingers, too, when required. She also offered solo items by Rachmaninov in each half. With the piano lid up for both the Moment musical, Op 16 No 5, and the Prelude in G minor, Op 23 No 5, she sounded less comfortable than partnering Kruglov through the mellower colours from a closed lid.
Michael Dervan
