Gerry Moriarty was impressed with the vitality, warmth and class of the Belfast Riverside Jazz Foundation while Siobhán Long and a sold-out Point were kept on their toes by the manic energy of Manu Chao during the week.
Allen, Alden, Bunch, Fleming and Drennan, Belfast Boat Club
The Belfast Riverside Jazz Foundation kicked off its new season of monthly concerts with a session of rare quality and swing, featuring American aristocrats of jazz, the youngish Harry Allen on tenor sax and Howard Alden on guitar and octogenarian John Bunch on piano, with Dublin based Dave Fleming on double bass and Myles Drennan on drums.
The music swung from ballads to bop with some classy blues and bossa in between. The fare was mostly from the masters, Ellington, the Gershwins, Mercer and Bix Beiderbicke, so the emphasis was on quality jazz, mainly of the 1930s, 1940s and 1950s, played in the accessible style of that period, but fresh and pulsing with invention.
Allen in particular is a creamy-toned beautiful saxophonist, rather in the Getzian mode, elegant, searching, lyrical, finding new ideas in old standards. There was little rehearsal, so we were told, but Allen teamed seamlessly with Alden, a pacey guitar virtuoso whose musical preference, like the saxophonist's, tends towards the romantic.
Bunch was another stylist who, over a long career, has played with Woody Herman and Benny Goodman. Even at the age of 81 the well was far from dry. With Fleming providing some inspired bass solos and Drennan cooking on drums it was obvious that here were musicians in cheerful sync with each other, enjoying themselves.
Highlight of the night was the Gershwins' Embraceable You, played with a truly gorgeous depth of feeling by Allen, with Alden also soloing, mixing it thoughtfully and offering little unobtrusive improvisations here and there; Bunch delivered his own delicate solo, and allowed the ballad to coast with a gentle breeze behind it.
Even in regular blues mode, as on Ellington/Mercer's Things Ain't What They Used to Be, this patrician swinging outfit radiated vitality, warmth and class. - Gerry Moriarty
Manu Chao, The Point, Dublin
The minute he emerged from the shadows, a tightly coiled spring poised for release, Manu Chao was intent on orbiting high and wide. Manic performances have become the norm in Chao's world, but on a louche night in Dublin it hit us like a ton of bricks and laid us low, until we recovered enough to loosen our hips and unhinge our taut shoulder blades in time to the music.
Chao's world is one of political insurgence, impassioned debate and chaotic rhythms, a jambalaya of diverse cultural references that somehow dovetail and then diverge in great swooping arcs of energy. Stitching his repertoire together in gigantic 25 minute sets, it was as if Chao decided to filch the best of traditional music (tunes married within sets) and meld it with the kind of rabid delivery that if spotted in a canine would have him impounded without delay.
Drawing extensively from a catalogue that spans reggae, ska, salsa, punk and rap, Chao relied on his seven-piece, testosterone-fuelled band (many of them shirtless within five minutes of coming on stage), that bolstered him effortlessly.
The two-piece brass section brought along the spice, the percussionist and drummer brought a crazed jackhammer beat and the rhythm guitarist played as if his body were invaded by aliens intent on pummelling every joint in his body until it ached.
Welcome To Tijuana captured the essence of Chao with verve; all raw nerve endings and spitfire delivery, it was a lynchpin in what was a long and winding set. Although both his Proxima Estación: Esperanza and Radio Bemba Sound System collections featured heavily in the set, it was the stripped-down songs, with Chao on guitar, that revealed the roots of the music best.
Essentially, a world music artist with an appetite for French, Spanish, English and Latin rhythms, at times he is at risk of being subsumed beneath the tsunami that is dance. Chao's repertoire stretches far beyond the two dimensions to which too many dance artists cling.
Still, he looks like a man whose finger is far closer to the pulse than he might be willing to admit on stage. For sheer manic energy, he has few peers, but at times that manic energy resembled an attention-deficit disordered fanatic, rather than a musician in charge of his own destiny. - Siobhán Long
