More than 50 years after it first appeared, South Pacific remains arguably the best of the tune-packed musicals from the immortal pairing of Rodgers and Hammerstein.
They created the form in which story, characters and music are integrated, each element fostering and advancing the others. And the songs are brilliant, a collection of memorable numbers ranging from the romantic to the near-burlesque.
For pure pleasure, all we have to do is let the sweep of it all wash over us. The love interests are declared at the start when Ensign Nellie Forbush is attracted to French planter Emile de Becque, and the duet Some Enchanted Evening is born. Later Lt Joe Cable arrives and falls for Liat, daughter of Bloody Mary, camp follower and singer of the haunting Bali Hai. His song to Liat is the lovely Younger Than Springtime.
Old-timers will have begun to salivate, and it would be a pity if the relatively young did not follow suit. Anyone with musical sensitivity must enjoy the songs and fine singing in this production, and there are fun show-stoppers to savour as well. There is Nothing Like a Dame and Honeybun beguile eye and ear.
The story, set to a background of war against the Japanese, has a slightly off-putting jolly-good-fellows army ambience. But it also has a sub-theme of racial discrimination, which makes it a pity that the remarkable song They've Got to be Carefully Taught, a fierce diatribe against prejudice, is not included here, if only for ballast.
Lead actor-singers, all splendid, are Ceara Grehan (Nellie), Simon Neal (Emile), Paul Byrom (Joe) and Tony Finnegan (Luther). Many others shine in this professional production directed by Vivian Coates, with Aidan Faughey conducting the melodious orchestra. - Gerry Colgan
Runs until Sat
The White Piece - Project, Space Upstairs
About 15 years ago when John Scott first presented work in the old Project, he would sellotape his source material on the foyer walls - important clues in deciphering his sometimes obtuse dances. The photocopies and stick-it notes are back up on Project's walls as a backdrop to The White Piece, but there's no need to scan the images to reveal the process behind the performance. These days Scott's process is revealed onstage.
The mishmash of games, exercises and improvisations not only reveal the inner structure of the work but are the actual surface itself. By allowing the performers to dictate the pacing, Scott relinquishes aspects of form and so there are the inevitable moments where proceedings meander. This can be infuriating, but at times it's as though the process itself begins to daydream and in these moments of forgetfulness you discover little gems of movement and text.
The properties of whiteness and associations around goodness and purity are behind the title, but there is also a strong element of self-identity. Performers list personal reflections on love, and dance a movement correlation to "love as fate" or "love as a taste bud". The device returns later when they simply say "me" and dance a personal business card. With a mixed cast of professional and non-professional dancers, it's the physical differences in their expressions that speak loudest. They all give committed performances and the structure allows them the freedom to retain the individualism, so one might go off-stage to glug on a water bottle or even laugh at another performer. The waywardness is mostly enjoyable, but some slightly harder buffers might have guided the journey without losing the immediacy of the energy or compromising artistic intent. - Michael Seaver
Runs until Sat
Pixies - Lansdowne Road, Dublin
They might have looked slightly out of place in a daylight support slot last year, but tonight, embraced by darkness and shrouded in billows of red mist, things are much better for the Pixies. Now they look perfectly out of place.
It couldn't be any other way. Completely at odds with the pop sheen and metal clamour of the late eighties, the Pixies have since proven so influential that if a group could collect royalties on inspiration alone, the Boston misfits probably wouldn't have reformed after an 11-year hiatus.
In a way, then, it's a masterstroke that Bud Rising matched them on the bill to Tennessee's stompingly good Kings of Leon, who - if you believe the Bible Belt insularity of their dubious back-story - developed their southern rock without encountering anything edgier than a gospel choir.
The Pixies aren't chasing converts however. Emerging without fanfare, frontman Frank Black eases into a whispered Wave of Mutilation, as comforting and harrowing as a lullaby in an asylum. Between Black's corpulence and bassist Kim Deal's comfy librarian attire, they still look brilliantly gauche, but their performance is anything but.
As songs surge by, they seem to have realised their early ambitions: Where is My Mind? is more haunting; the unadulterated pop of Here Comes Your Man still breezier; the thrilling dementia of Nimrod's Son, Vamos or Bone Machine each terrifying and exhilarating. Even more encouraging than the sing-along euphoria of Monkey Gone to Heaven or an incandescent Debaser, are the smiles between a band that broke up by fax.
"Goodnight Kim," says Black over the closing vamp of Gigantic. "Goodnight Charles," she responds, using his real name. There is something of the night to this captivating Waltons moment; the dusky affections of a mangled family. - Peter Crawley
Franz Ferdinand/Scissor Sisters - Lansdowne Road, Dublin
Now over a year into their phenomenal success on the back of their debut album, the Glaswegian four-piece Franz Ferdinand have all the swagger of the biggest band in the world, and front man Alex Kapranos held sway between songs with a beaming smile and effortless banter, creating an intimacy most stadium acts never achieve in their entire careers.
Live, they have pared things down to perfection, all energy, zero pomp, and judging by the new tracks, their command of both their sound and the charts looks set to long continue.
Shortly afterward, as the sparkle of an enormous 70s-disco lighting rig came into view, Scissors Sisters bounded onstage, with lead singer Jake Shears grinning his unnaturally wide-eyed grin, and looking like he'd just escaped a hoard of clasping fans minus most of his shirt and some of his innocence.
Taking their cues from burlesque and cabaret as much as disco, the Scissor Sisters' set played a little like an off-Broadway musical, and amid all the high-kicking, overhead handclaps and hollering "Are Youuuuu Readyyyyy?", it was sometimes difficult to know where to find focus.
Shears is the musical heart of the band, singing with an almost shy approach, but Ana Matronic is the loudmouth, filling every available moment with "whoops", and "c'mon everybodys" as well as a few ill-judged meanderings, such as the connection between Einstein's theories and "gettin' down".
Laura, Take Your Mama Out, Filthy/Gorgeous and the thundering Tits on the Radio were among the high points, but the performance resonated as much with studied vehemence as passion.
Their outrageousness and retro sound is open to charges of "style over substance", but the songs are there, along with a level of commitment that is difficult to ignore. They just don't need to dazzle nearly as much as they think. - John Lane
