English tenor Ian Bostridge's first visit to the West Cork Chamber Music Festival could be described in the simplest of terms - he came, he sang, and he conquered.
The concert, in St Brendan's Church, was an unusual one.
Bostridge was only involved in the first half, a performance, without interruption, of Benjamin Britten's five canticles, cantatas of widely-varying character, each to a religious text, written between 1947 and 1974.
Britten was mostly writing for himself (at the piano) and the voice of his partner, tenor Peter Pears, though the final canticle, The Death of St Narcissus, substitutes harp for piano - in the last years of his life the composer was no longer well enough to play. The dramatic second canticle, Abraham and Isaac is for tenor and alto; the third, Still falls the rain, for tenor and horn, the fourth, Journey of the Magi, for three voices, tenor, counter tenor and baritone.
From the rapid escalation into ecstasy of the first, My beloved is mine, it quickly became clear that this was to be one of those performances in which word and music were to seem so inextricably bound that one without the other was simply unimaginable.
Bostridge was in commanding form, giving everything the composer demanded of him, whether minute or colossal. In Abraham and Isaac his partnership with counter tenor Robin Blaze was a vocal match made in heaven. This is clearly the effect Britten wanted, as he joined the two voices to represent the voice of God, and separated them for the characters of Abraham and Isaac, though the sound of the counter tenor was not at all what he originally had in mind - the work is dedicated to Pears and the great contralto, Kathleen Ferrier.
There was no weak link in this performance - Nathan Berg was the third Magi, Hervé Joulain the horn player, Clíona Doris the harpist, and Julius Drake a pianist of towering dramatic strength. It wasn't one of those occasions that's likely to linger fondly in the memory, but rather one which is likely to have seared itself indelibly in the consciousness of all who heard it.
The contrast with the music-making after the interval could not have been greater. This was the festival's second assault on Rainer Riehn's vainglorious attempt to fabricate the chamber version of Mahler's Das Lied von der Erde that Schoenberg once embarked on.
The great irony is that neither this performance under Laurent Wagner nor the earlier one in 1998 sounded as much like true chamber music as a sensitive performance of Mahler's original with large orchestra. On this occasion tenor John Daszak struggled with his high notes, as well as with the volume levels delivered by Wagner, and the gorgeously rich-toned contralto Sara Fulgoni only coped with them by singing consistently too loud.
The day's music-making opened with the Mondrian Ensemble giving a sleek, classical-sculpted account of Beethoven's String Trio in C minor, Op 9 No 3, and then, inappropriately, opting to present Brahms's Piano Trio in B, Op 8, from the same perspective. And it ended with a witty and explosive solo percussion programme from Hans-Kristian Sorensen, aided by Peadar Townsend in Steve Reich's Clapping Music, mezzo soprano Cristina Zavalloni for some theatrical open improvisation, and a Duracell bunny for a percussionist's equivalent of a ventriloquist's dummy. The closing performance of Xenakis's classic Psappha had a wow factor at the top of the scale. - Michael Dervan
Brian Wilson - Vicar Street, Dublin
Innocent odes to surf, sun, and the all-consuming power of teenage desires and despair, Brian Wilson's music is as familiar and comforting as a hug from a loved one. But pay more attention and its embrace may become frightening. Intoxicating melodies gyre and gimble, resolving in transcendental choruses and circular harmonies. The complexity of an orchestra is swept up in the drive of a pop song. Peer too deep into this genius and you might become lost in it.
So it is with the man himself. As the 63-year-old lumbers endearingly onto the stage, legends trail in his wake (the living-room sandpit; the drugs; the depression; the years in bed; the abandoned album, Smile, released after 37 lost years) and Vicar Street swells with affection. But Wilson's impassive features and vacant gaze send a message too: you don't want to get too close.
There is, however, little chance of keeping our distance. Wilson's energetic 10-piece band surge into Darlin', following with the swooning emotions of Don't Worry Baby. And though Wilson squints at a teleprompter through each song, leaving the keys of his electric piano untouched, his voice is right where it needs to be on Then I Kissed Her and the sensitively pitched In My Room. Songs from Pet Sounds are served up in a regal suite: a buoyant Sloop John B slides into Wouldn't It Be Nice, while his introduction to the staggering God Only Knows - "Paul McCartney's favourite song" - is a sweet reminder that the transatlantic rivals are still keeping score.
Smile barely gets a look in, having passed from the grandeur of a myth to the reality of a record. And though some fans may stare devotionally at Wilson, those that dance in the eternal summer of I Get Around, California Girls and Good Vibrations come closest to understanding Wilson's fragile genius. The man may not show much emotion, but he knows how it should sound. - Peter Crawley
