Emiliana Torrini, Sugar Club, Dublin
She's not part of any new scene, and for that we should be grateful. There are no strings attached, no manifestos and no agenda stapled to Emiliana Torrini's CV. She is, perhaps, destined for cult status, although with a songwriting nous that can pen not only a No 1 hit for Kylie (Slow) but also something as strange and beautiful as Gollum Song (from the soundtrack to Lord of the Rings: the Two Towers), you can never be too sure what will happen.
Torrini is from Iceland, which might explain a lot; she shares with that other well-known female singer from Iceland, Bjork, a bank of stylistic tics. These include curious vocal intonations, a fertile sense of humour that occasionally, bewilderingly, gets lost in translation, and a performance approach that is utterly compelling.
She begins with Today has been OK, one of many songs she plays from her most recent album, Fisherman's Woman. Backed by three male multi-instrumentalists, each with a sensitive touch, Torrini manages to be both fragile and resourceful in terms of melody; just when you think a quirky tune will fall apart something tangible and tensile comes along and supports it to the end. Songs such as Sunnyroad, Heartstopper, Lifesaver, Snow and the title track each have the kind of arrangements and rhythm that call to mind hammock-swinging sea shanties fused with the jazz inflected pop-folk of Pentangle and Young Marble Giants. Cover versions (also to be found on Fisherman's Woman) include Smog's Honeymoon Child and Sandy Denny's Next time Around, the latter in particular a gorgeous reference point not only to Torrini's musical influences but to her passion for intimacy.
Describing her writing style as "sitting in a scruffy coffee house pretending to be a poet writing hate mail" and her music as "slow motion death metal" (we'd never have guessed, to be honest) Torrini is that rare thing - a singular and precious talent. - Tony Clayton-Lea
Kaiser Chiefs, The Ambassador
Where have we seen this band before? With his rakish blonde fringe and kitschy mod dress sense, singer Ricky Wilson could be an early-1980s Simon LeBon funnelled into the frame of a mid-1990s Damon Albarn. Mop-topped guitarist Andrew White hugs his instrument to his chest like The Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show.
The Ambassador's stage is swooning under a grab bag of music and fashion references, and somewhere beneath this jittering, thrilling mass of affectations is a group called Kaiser Chiefs. They are at once a random survey of the last 40 years of British music and - wouldn't you know it - the band of the moment.
Such is the buzz about the Leeds five-piece that this concert had been upgraded twice, all before their debut album Employment had been released. Entirely undaunted by such expectation, the shape-throwing Wilson launches into the first of many ferocious leaps and the hyper-kinetic playground chorus of Na Na Na Na Naa.
They may look (and often sound) like a supergroup assembled from a series of Britpop tribute bands, but Kaiser Chiefs are a unerringly cohesive unit, as tight on stage as they are on record. Pandemonium is clearly their comfort zone, with Wilson and drummer Nick Hodgson providing a screeching crescendo before most choruses; most choruses as wiry and wry as Everyday I Love You Less and Less, or as intellectually-taxing as Saturday Night's "oh-wah-ooh"s.
Throughout, the frenetic Wilson maintains a bizarre double act with his stage crew, one of whom has the unenviable chore of repositioning his endlessly toppling mike stand, or retrieving his tambourine, microphone and, at one point, an electric fan from the crowd.
Although the Chief's propensity to flash their influences can be a mite distracting, the infectiously propulsive I Predict a Riot and Oh My God position them well for the future. When the references settle, they'll finally be their own band. - Peter Crawley
Oleanna, T36 Theatre, Parnell Square
When David Mamet's Oleanna first appeared in 1992, political correctness, sexual harassment and other issues were perceived to be his main concerns. At this remove, the play is a lot simpler, now a searching probe of gender politics, and a dramatic duel between two people.
The play, set in a university, has only two characters, professor John and student Carol. When we first see them, she is apparently a confused student in fear of failure, considering herself stupid. The impatient John soon becomes supportive. People thought him unintelligent, too, on his way to his present eminence.
He offers her private tuition, and a guaranteed A grade if she co-operates. The seeds have been planted, and the relationship has become a personal one. There is something phoney
about his psychology and radical thinking, as if he is unwittingly flexing his ego. While they talk, there are constant phone interruptions from his wife to add to the tension.
When we meet them next, a terrible ugliness has been born. Carol has reported him to the university's administration for misdemeanours ranging from incompetence to sexual harassment.
He is innocent, but is honest enough to admit that, in his subconscious mind, he was open to the charges. Then the plot takes a further twist, revealing that he has been the target of an anti-male group, in which Carol played front-runner. This escalates into an explosive climax.
This is a marvellous play, full of tension and fascinating character revelation. Shane Nestor's John moves convincingly from authority and intellectual hubris to humiliating defeat. He is not a villain, simply insecure and short on self-knowledge. Amy Hastings is a marvellous Carol, a complex creation whose cause comes first, mercilessly turning the knife.
Mamet's coruscating play is in good hands here. - Gerry Colgan
