Irish Times writers on the lastest in theatre and music.
Jenufa, Gaiety Theatre, Dublin
By Michael Dervan
"One thing is certain," wrote Janácek after the première of his opera Její Pastorkyna (Her Stepdaughter) in Brno in January 1904: "that the work is generally liked, that it's got life in it, that on the stage every word is sharp and effective, just as I emphasised it in the music. They have recognised my talents as a composer for the theatre - and in these times of Wagner, Charpentier, Dvorák, etc, etc, this is indeed significant and extremely flattering for me."
Wagner is still with us, but the operas of Charpentier and Dvorák have faded from the opera house as the presence of Janácek's rose. Jenufa, as Její Pastorkyna has become known, made its early progress slowly, reaching Prague in 1916 and Vienna two years later; it conquered the German-speaking world (courtesy of the singing translation by Max Brod) before achieving wider international success.
Opera Ireland's new production, directed by Jiri Nekvasil, designed by Daniel Dvorák and conducted by Laurent Wagner, is the fourth to be seen in Dublin. It's a mostly spare undertaking, mostly emphasising the distance between the characters in this tale of rural infanticide and transforming love.
The Laca of the Belarussian tenor Ivan Choupenitch undergoes a plausible transition from venomously jealous oaf to caring, staunch bridegroom. The Steva - his half-brother and rival - of the Swiss tenor Andreas Jaeggi is just that bit too callously uncaring to allow any signs of what his cousin, the warm-hearted Jenufa, might have found attractive in him in the first place.
The key characters in this compassionate and deeply touching opera are not the men but the kostelnicka (sextoness), Buryjovka, and her stepdaughter Jenufa. Jenufa suffers the rejection of Steva, by whom she has secretly borne a child. And it's the kostelnicka who, in spite of her position in the community, disposes of the baby. After the dreadful deed she persuades Jenufa, who had taken a sleeping draught, that she's been delirious for two days, during which time the baby died.
It's the way Janácek develops the emotional worlds of these characters that makes this opera so special. Franzita Whelan suffers the buffeting of Jenufa with resilience, and the self-confrontation of Rosalind Plowright's ascetically withdrawn Buryjovka brings the opera's most startling and passionate outbursts.
Janácek was extremely proud of the fact that the libretto he set was prose rather than verse. He wanted to develop what he called "speech melody", so that he could accurately reflect the rhythms of the Czech language in his music. In doing this he placed an unusual burden on the orchestra, and Wagner's sharp contouring of the instrumental writing was an essential component in ensuring the success of this often understated production in the composer's terms.
Lúnasa, Temple Bar Music Centre, Dublin
By Siobhán Long
Times have changed. When a trad outfit draw the multitudes into Temple Bar to hear a reprise of the latest addition to their repertoire, recorded in the magisterial surroundings of Kinnity Castle, in Co Offaly, and released as The Kinnity Sessions, all the signs point towards music that's reached its majority. And even the most cursory scan of the audience reveals as multicultural a gathering as you'll encounter anywhere in Dublin. In Lúnasa's collective gabháil the tradition meets the present and sparks fly gloriously.
Kevin Crawford, flute and bodhrán player and Lúnasa's enviably loquacious MC, rolls out the sets with an ear for detail and an eye for camaraderie that must be the envy of a rake of bands. Not only is he a master of his instruments but also he exerts the subtlest of plamás on his audience, not so much winning them over as luring them into his impish playpen, where tunes are there to be relished, not admired.
From the earliest set, Seán In The Fog, featuring the book-ended Easter Sunday and Donagh Hennessy's latest ode to love, Come Back With My Bloody Car, they were piping hot. Seán Smyth's fiddle continues to stretch its ligaments to meet the challenge of Hennessy's intricate guitar lines, with Trevor Hutchinson's double bass lending increasingly complex shading in the back.
Crawford's rhythmic sensibilities have always added a wry third dimension to the Hutchinson-Hennessy partnership, although his modesty prevents him from commandeering the spotlight when it comes time for the bodhrán to kick-start proceedings. Still, the merging of all five instruments on the sublime Tie The Bonnet set of reels is proof, were it needed, of the seamless coalition that defines the band.
Cillian Vallely, always Lúnasa's quiet man, seeks no limelight and garners much of it with his rooted piping, tackling Asturian and Irish piping tunes effortlessly on Casu.
Apprenticeships have been well and truly served. Homage has been paid (particularly to the Bothy Band). Now it's time for Lúnasa's star to shine in its own right. And a glance across the jubilant dancers, silent listeners and studious groupies confirms that they've finally come home.
The Mavericks, Olympia Theatre, Dublin
By Tony Clayton-Lea
As a touring band The Mavericks haven't been around for some years, with band members Raul Malo and Robert
Reynolds concentrating on decent solo material that hasn't exactly set the world alight. So the band reconvened, recorded a new album and began to tour the pants off it.
They begin with their biggest hit, Dance The Night Away, and continue in the dancehall-mariachi style (the latter supplemented by a brass section trio that looked as if it were picked up from its busking spot on Grafton Street mere minutes before the gig) for several songs before hitting the creative highs with what many people (this writer included) reckon they do best.
The ringing, chiming guitars of Here Comes The Rain heralded a section that was equal parts sublime and, well, even more sublime. The band's early background of touring Florida's rock circuit provided Malo and company with the type of backbone that will not bend.
The country-rock songs forged from this period are similarly resilient, blending Byrds-like melodies with plangent guitar noises and plaintive words about being in and out of love.
Malo then takes the solo spotlight and treats the audience to a few dramatically interpreted covers, including Don Gibson's Sweet Dreams and Gram Parsons's
I'm Your Toy. And then it's back to the guitars, mariachi and a happy-clappy crowd.
As highly enjoyable as it was mildly frustrating - it was effectively sectioned off into three parts, and boy were the stitches obvious - the show nevertheless served to remind us that when they focus on one particular style The Mavericks are in a class of their own.
When they don't they lose the plot somewhat and transform into the title of one of their earlier records: music for all occasions.
Sometimes, music for one or two occasions is good enough.
Irish Chamber Orchestra/Hunka, National Gallery, Dublin
By Michael Dungan
Handel - Concerto Grosso in F Op 6 No 2. Schnittke - Sonata for Violin and Chamber Orchestra. Puccini - Crisantemi. Mendelssohn - String Symphony No 9
The Irish Chamber Orchestra spanned a huge stylistic and historical range in its Sunday-afternoon programme directed from the violin by Katherine Hunka, its leader. The widest temporal leap was between the first two items: Handel's Concerto Grosso in F, Op 6 No 2 (which I missed through agonised looping around Merrion Square for a legal parking space) and Schnittke's 1968 arrangement for violin and chamber orchestra of his First Violin Sonata.
Superficially, the two works are connected by the presence of the harpsichord. In fact, however, Schnittke ascribes the instrument with a very un-baroque character. It provides splashes of melodramatic, sometimes spooky colour to music whose four movements traverse an emotional spectrum from pensive to sardonic to tender and, finally, to a kind of grinning lunacy, like a fool blissfully oblivious of lurking dangers.
Hunka was effective in her dual role as director and soloist. She was sweet and searching in the work's Bergian opening solo and in the slow third movement, with its bird-call harmonics. She was also an effective controller of balance and ensemble in the harsh chords that stab at the solo melody in the first movement.
The temporal leap from Schnittke to Puccini is shorter but stylistically almost just as wide. Music from the short lament Crisantemi - or Chrysanthemums, which in Italy are associated with death and funerals - ended up in Manon Lescaut. Although the grieving is expressed in Puccini's compelling and familiar operatic language, the performance gained by avoiding overstatement.
The rendition of detail was somewhat generalised in the performance of the teenaged Mendelssohn's Haydnesque String Symphony No 9. But the playing was alive with youthful energy and showed a relish for the to and fro of contrapuntal interplay.
