Irish Times critics review the latest shows
Midori, McDonald
NCH, Dublin
Hindemith - Sonata in E flat Op 11 No 1 Brahms - Sonata in G Op 78
Bach - Violin Sonata in A BWV1015
Saint-Saëns - Violin Sonata No 1
Midori is one of those violinists who, like Kreisler, can make dross seem like gold. Not that there was any dross in this Celebrity Recital programme. It's just that she shapes everything with such beauty, with such effortless sensitivity that a passing trifle becomes something to savour. In Robert McDonald, her regular duo partner, she had a pianist who was a perfect match.
Such playing does not suit everything. If one piece lost out, it was the Brahms Sonata in G Op 78. Music deeply rooted in dance and in rugged rhythmic energy was too polished, almost suave.
It was as if the man who, 25 years before he wrote this work was described by Schumann as the "young eagle from Hamburg" had become an owl - too wise to show earthy passion.
Hindemith's engaging Sonata Op 11 No 1 fared better. However, even there, the tendency to smooth-out rough edges was evident, especially in an unusually contemplative account of the second movement.
It was unusual to hear a virtuoso recital that was so extreme in its quietness, that was so uninterested in playing to the gallery.
Perhaps that was why Bach's Violin Sonata in A BWV1015 was so rewarding. It was straight, impeccable in technique and shape, and acutely aware of the three-part discourse between left hand, right hand and violin.
The one place where sparks did fly was in the last item, Saint-Saëns's Sonata No 1. This music's combination of technical facility and urbane good manners was neatly captured, and that was exemplified by the driving energy and perfect ensemble of the finale, and in the way Midori handled the long note that links the opening Allegro and the following Adagio. She made it so tantalising that one wished it could have gone on all night.
Martin Adams
Calexico,
Vicar Street, Dublin
It was akin to a spaghetti western sound-tracked by the Alabama 3; Ennio Morricone with his palette augmented by an astounding spectrum of brass, percussion and straight-up, no-nonsense honky-tonk. Calexico rode into town on Thursday night and town stood still.
Joey Burns's rangy, cavernous voice filled every nook, cranny and rafter crack, and, just for a while, we were all chewing on that straw that used to be the preserve of strangers by the name of Eastwood or Van Cleef.
Burns makes for an unlikely front man. His Montreal roots were nowhere to be seen, though his current home town of Tucson, Arizona, was stamped all over the set list. Last year's Feast Of Wire album was the backbone of the night, scaffolding a truly cinematic performance, complete with video backdrop and puzzling stills that countered and reflected the music in turn.
Across The Wire and Guero Canelo stretched our tympanic membranes across a wide open prairie where we figured we were hearing sounds normally privy only to canines, with eardrums vibrating at frequencies unknown to the rest of us.
Joey Burns's and John Convertino's songs veer from parched Raymond Carver minimalism to luscious brass tones and lusty hip-swivelling rhythms.
Mariachi never sounded so loose, and yet this some-time seven-piece played as tight as a broom closet for the entirety of their 90-minute set (including two encores).
Calexico make music that's two parts David Lynch to one part cantina-fuelled wide-horizoned soundscape. Its spectrum's too wide for Tex Mex, its palate too eclectic to limit itself to Mariachi, and its sensibilities too well-developed to be cast as alt rockers. Their recent forays into cinema sound-tracking and advertising may have sullied their bibs just a tad (no longer the indie hipsters they were when they unpacked their trunk in Whelan's), but Calexico's heart is most definitely lodged well between the guitar strings, the marimba and the vibraphone. Makes you wish you were headin' south along with them after the lights went down.
Siobhán Long
Mac-Beth 7
Project Upstairs
It opens with a row of desks on each side of the stage, with schoolchildren seated at them. They are studying Shakespeare's Macbeth, and the children begin to act out the story and characters. Three girls in gymslips and school ties become the witches; boys assume the roles of Duncan, Macbeth, Banquo and others. With a fluidity that soon becomes the mark of this Pan Pan production, they interchange roles almost randomly. Before it ends, there have been four Macbeths and multiple incarnations of all the lead characters.
There are clearly layers upon layers of interpretation here; but this is still the Macbeth we all know from our own schooldays. The story is unchanged, of the warrior corrupted by the lure of power, and of his ultimate downfall. His murders, of Duncan and Banquo and many others, have corroded his soul.
The empty guarantees of the witches finally betray him, and MacDuff has the last word.
The words also remain Shakespeare's, with sensitive cutting that preserves the depth of thought and knowledge enshrined by them. What Pan Pan brings to the feast is a new architecture, a novel arrangement of the bricks in a structure that beguiles the eye and intrigues the intellect. This includes the actors in the way they work together, sharing the limelight and the roles. They are Drew Barnes, Andrew Bennett, Ned Dennehy, Eugene Ginty, Emma McIvor, Katherine O'Malley, Nicola Sharkey and Dylan Tighe.
Director Gavin Quinn's vision is clearly a major contributor to a most impressive and entertaining composition. This version of it has the feel and attraction of a jazz version of a classic tune, beguiling and different - but, beneath, the melody and the major debt linger on. This is, of course the passion and creativity that inspire Pan Pan to be different as well as entertaining, and we should be grateful for that.
Runs to April 24th
Gerry Colgan
Norah Jones
The Point, Dublin
Norah Jones and her audience are getting along swimmingly. Or, to put it another way, the Point is full as an ocean and she is struggling to keep afloat.
It is a unique predicament; this is a venue commensurate with her extraordinary success, but certainly not with the velvet intimacy of her music.
You can't blame Norah though. Through no real fault of her own, the 25-year-old has sold over 20 million albums, scooping eight Grammys for her debut, while single-handedly resuscitating music industry optimism.
In the space of just two years she has been lambasted for the perceived blandness of her style ("Snorah Jones"), while paving the way for an easy listening army of near-jazz crooners ("Norah Clones").
Success has clearly not gone to her head. She emerges with a delicate little wave and an apology for being late. "I'm not trying to be dramatic," she confesses.
Heaven forbid. But viewed from the upper stratosphere of the venue, the scale seems all wrong. Gigantic lampshades loom over a miniature band.
Soft piano keys and brushed percussion echo through the depot. It's a warehouse disguised as a coffeehouse.
At the piano, sitting pretty, Jones's country-tinged, jazz-sprinkled ballads soothe the soul like medium-strength tranquillisers.
Every so often Jones tries to invigorate proceedings, but punctures her musical sensuality with a nervous laugh, imparting saucer-eyed juvenilia to the audience.
"We're so happy," she informs us between the sweet Toes and bedroom-eyed languor of Sunrise. "That's it. That's my life story." Even that biography could be a bestseller. Jones's wholesome audience indulge her with such beaming approval that while Painter Song, Don't Know Why and even an AC/DC cover slink into a soporific din, the response is a disproportionate rapture.
Immersed in mass affection, Jones raises that delicate hand again to say goodbye; not waving this time, but drowning.
Peter Crawley
