Scarlet Cloak interpret Ben Johnson's The Fox and singer-songwriter José González among today's reviews.
The Fox
Teacher's Club, Dublin
The satirist's job, as Horace saw it, was to take a look at society's ills and "comment with a smile". His 17th-century admirer Ben Jonson felt much the same way, but replaced those gentle thrusts with aggressive stabs: Jonson's comment came with a snarl and Volpone, or The Fox, the most enduring of his comedies, balances a moral stance with a mischievous glee.
At its simplest, the lesson of Volpone is hardly earth-shattering. As an elderly, sickly businessman without an heir receives gifts from various wealthy citizens of Venice hoping to inherit his swag, the venality of each "vulture, kite, raven and gor-crow" leaves everyone pathetically exposed. It is, of course, a con: Volpone, aided by his assistant Mosca, is in rude good health, and before long his artful deceptions mean a good son is disinherited by his gullible father, a psychotically jealous husband prostitutes out his virtuous wife, and a conniving servant gains power over his master.
There is clearly a moral centre to this social satire, which Jonson's Catholic conscience underscores with images of false gods ("Open the shrine", says Volpone of his gold chest, "that I may see my Saint") and the unflinching belief of the virtuous in heaven. But there's no disguising Jonson's delight in the quick-thinking, fast-talking manoeuvres of a con artist at work. Volpone and Mosca's schemes are as much about the trickery of language as the corrupting power of promise. Between a snake-oil sales pitch, treacle-tongued wooing and - in Jonson's most acidulous moments - a lawyer's slippery arguments, talk in this play is rarely idle and never cheap.
It is all that the fledgling company Scarlet Cloak can do to try to gain command of Jonson's twisty language, but despite director Evelyn McGrory's brisk editing of the text, they don't yet have the experience to serve his vituperative energy. It's also unclear why certain roles, such as Claire Lyons' Mosca, should be cross-cast, unless the agenda is to match stronger performers with better parts. This may not be the best introduction to Jonson or to Scarlet Cloak, but it wouldn't be the first time Volponehad lured people in with the promise of easy pickings, only to leave them slyly outfoxed.
Ends Sat
PETER CRAWLEY
José González
The Academy, Dublin
It is less than five months since José González last visited Dublin, yet with only two albums under his belt the singer-songwriter has already earned the total respect of his audience. At this performance, there were no frustrated calls for silence, no background chatter and certainly no inane heckles from drunk attendees. From the moment the quietly spoken Swede took to the stage, the crowd was his.
As a teen, González played in Swedish punk and hardcore bands but those raucous times have been left behind. Eschewing the standard folk poses and keeping his songs perfectly brief, González has honed his skills to a fine art. With just his classical guitar as accompaniment, Fold, with its delicately picked chords, is an impassioned plea to an unrequited love, while the infectious Crossesand fragile Deadweight on Velveteenwere soothingly hypnotic.
While his second release, In Our Nature, touches on themes of existentialism, love, religion and politics, the lyrics are secondary to his masterful fusion of voice (think Nick Drake vulnerability with David Kitt earnestness) and dexterous musicianship.
Having come to the world's attention with a version of Heartbeatsby his compatriots The Knife, González has consistently displayed a gift for interpreting other people's songs. The aforementioned cover, along with his stripped-down reading of Teardropby Massive Attack and Bronski Beat's Small Time Boy, came close to the end of this set, but with In Our NatureGonzález has strengthened his own writing skills, adding bite and backbone where a constrained humility previously ruled.
Joined by the percussion playing and backing vocals of Yukimi Nagamo and Erik Bodin for most of the performance, his songs take on a further dimension. The Latin-folk influenced Lovestain and Remainas well as the intense Down The Roadand sublime Cycling Trivialitieswere even more impressive than his covers.
Delivering almost his entire catalogue in just over an hour, González helped create an oasis of calm in the northside venue. Ambling off the stage in his customary unassuming way, the boisterous reaction from the satisfied audience was easily the loudest moment of the night.
Moynihan, RTÉCO/Grant
NCH, Dublin
Gearóid Grant and the RTÉ Concert Orchestra delved into a mixed musical bag that seemed to aim less at balanced listening than at exploring an entanglement of interconnections.
Three items were on the gladiator topic: a pot-pourri from Hans Zimmer's Holst-flavoured score for a Ridley Scott blockbuster, Sousa's march of the same name (replete with deafening trombone counterpoints), and Fucik's renowned circus lead-in.
The stadium/film context was developed, in tribute to the Irish Olympic team, with a trot through Vangelis's anodyne theme for Chariots of Fire. An American thread, too, was picked up in a lean-sounding Largo from Dvorák's New World Symphonyand in two works with solo piano by US composers - the I Got Rhythm Variations by Gershwin, and the last movement from the second piano concerto by MacDowell.
Soloist Fionnuala Moynihan put clarity first and éclat second in both pieces, to the slightly greater advantage of the latter.
Yet, while Gershwin's short-winded digressions might have taken more muscle, they maintained a delicate balance between freedom and impetus. MacDowell's fine concerto deserves more than just a partial hearing, and Grant made the finale's alternations of slow and fast tempos particularly engaging.
Moynihan handled the appreciable piano part with dignified chording, clean virtuosity and an alert correspondence with the orchestra. Here's hoping that her future concerto appearances will consist of more substantial contributions to less cluttered programmes.
ANDREW JOHNSTONE
Jeffrey Lewis and the Jitters
Crawdaddy, Dublin
All across Ireland, there are bands in rehearsal rooms that sound better than Jeffrey Lewis and the Jitters. Their guitars are tuned, they sing on key, they listen to their drummer and their whistling solos are - well, they don't have whistling solos.
However, there are probably few if any bands in rehearsal rooms here that are more entertaining than Jeffrey Lewis.
The boyish-looking Lewis is becoming something of a cult hero. He has been labelled anti-folk, which sounds a bit unfair - he seems far to nice to wish any ill will towards a few gentle singer-songwriters.
His latest album is a re-recording of songs by the seminal anarchist punk band Crass. Their music contains the hallmark pulsing punk rhythms and in Lewis's hands, they become rapidly strummed, rumbling acoustic tracks - the lyrics still cut to the bone but in the gentlest way possible.
And that's largely the point. In a recent article in the Guardian, novelist Ed Park said this was a "golden age for lyrics" in music, thanks to acts such as the Hold Steady, Vampire Weekend and surely Jeffrey Lewis would make this list. His songs are delivered at bullet speed with clarity and conviction, and just when melody threatens to turn the track into something slightly commercial, Lewis stops it getting beyond ideas of itself with some flat intonation. Plus, he rhymes words such as "Seattle" and "skedaddle".
He also punctuates his set list with comics, projecting pages of books he has drawn on to the wall while he sings the narrative, the best of which is volume four in a greater work on the complete history of communism, entitled The History of Communism in China. It's historical accuracy and disarming comprehensiveness do nothing to blunt its hilarity.
Lewis rages against the Man, against the system, against record companies (a particular highlight is a track called Don't Let the Record Company Take You Out to Lunch, which every aspiring band should read for purely economic reasons), and any other establishment figure or institution you're having yourself. The songs are as slipshod as they are sharp and Lewis deserves plenty of attention.
LAURENCE MACKIN
