Irish Times writers review Prince at The Point Depot, in Dublin; Sinead O'Connor at the Nerve Centre in Derry; Blue Away at the Cobalt Cafe in Dublin and Fuzion at Draíocht also in Dublin.
Prince
The Point, Dublin
Tony Clayton-Lea
Did you miss me?" The true answer to this question from the impossibly funky Prince is no, at least not in the past six-to-eight years, when the pointer on his quality control meter hardly flicked past zero and when his career seemed to be in free-fall. Yet it seems in the past year or so Prince - now called just that and not some irritating I-am-a-record-company-slave squiggle - has cast aside his creatively adrift years and climbed inside the Soul Train's 1st class compartment.
At his sold-out concert on Thursday night, with an audience right across the demographic, Prince unequivocally confirmed his position in the rock/pop/soul firmament as the smallest man with the biggest heart. Starting off with a long-winded yet scene-setting introduction - the epitome of funk, in other words - he quickly settled into the groove of the show, which was one of great enjoyment, celebration of the spirit and, as the man himself said near the close, "the championing of our similarities". One of the biggest surprises? He was so darned chatty. Gone was the innate shyness and preciousness of his purple past. In their place was a performer, an entertainer - messing with the "chilled-out" audience in the upper seats, inviting people up on stage, teasing the crowd, asking them questions, telling us to switch off our radios and "hellivision" and tune into ourselves for a change; basically, someone who appeared to care about his audience, once more.
It was a marathon show, too, nudging towards the three-hour mark, yet with very little filler. Only some of the hits were played, too, but none were perfunctory: Sign O' The Times, Raspberry Beret, Starfish And Coffee, Diamonds And Pearls, Money Don't Matter 2 Night, Nothing Compares 2 U, Take Me With U.
In between the songs we knew and the lengthy jams we didn't was the svelte figure of Prince himself - commander of the ship, maestro of the funk, ego-driven but smart with it and someone very much in touch with his own and his audience needs.
Did we miss him? Again, no - but it's great to have him back again: this good, this superior, this assured.
Sinead O'Connor
Nerve Centre, Derry
Derek O'Connor
Warmly greeted (to say the least) by an enthusiastic Derry audience, it's fair to say that Sinead O'Connor could have coasted through the inaugural date of her first Irish tour in some years on sheer goodwill alone. Instead, despite being occasionally waylaid by a niggling spot of bronchitis, O'Connor vividly brought home the fact that it's time to once again show some respect for one of our great musical talents.
The first half of the set, as expected, drew heavily from Sinead's Sean Nós Nua album; here, freed from the unnecessary ornamentation that over-eggs the pudding somewhat on record, the adroitly chosen traditional standards truly fly in a fashion the album can only hint at. From an early point in her career, the woman has proved a superlative interpreter of found material, be it the poetry of WB Yeats or the songwriting of Prince, and it's in performance that Sean Nós Nua's bold stabs at reinventing standards, many considered beyond cliché, prove truly startling: the dubby take on Sé Do Bheatha Bhaile is a standout, for example, if only as a textbook example of how O'Connor can still make an unappealing prospect sound positively inspired. Then, when after a somewhat subdued start, that voice starts to reach its higher ground - another Sean Nós Nua highlight My Lagan Love - it's like the reawakening of a national treasure.
The spirit onstage is of amiability and self-deprecation. Here is an artist who has made peace with her past and her back catalogue; cue rapturously received outings for The Last Day Of Our Acquaintance, John I Love You, dear old Nothing Compares To U and a monumental, parting Thank You For Hearing Me.
Based on this evidence, the world is once again hers for the taking - but does she want it?
Blue Away
Cobalt Café
Peter Crawley
For all its subversiveness, the drag act itself cannot be tampered with. Performing their sixth fringe show, one wonders how much mileage The Ladies Blue can get from the limited repertoire of ever more outrageous costumes, impossible bouffants and a stream of single entendres.
But mileage they get, as sisters Petrah and Steelah journey across the globe, their frantic itinerary checked off by show tunes that never let geographic contradictions stand in their way. Here The Girl from Ipanema goes by in Seville, although even "her" identity is called into question.
Performed with more gusto than grace, ironic dance sequences rumble the small venue with each dainty footfall, while songs are belted mercilessly into submission. Spectacle matches decibel in James Barry and Alan Kinsella's depiction of Steelah's parodic pout and Petrah's perfectly dud delivery of Lieder. But long before their voyage ends it feels that there's nowhere left to go. (Ends tonight.)
Fuzion
Draíocht
Michael Seaver
KWESI Johnson's Kompani Malakhi tackles gender and culture head on in Fuzion. Three blokes in a flat accommodate most of the action, to live music, as competitiveness and self-consciousness reign. Everything becomes physical in this world, a simple game of dominoes over a coffee table soon leads to exaggerated swinging arms or bodies that strain towards the ceiling before slamming down a winning piece. In a hilarious opening to the second part, there is a battle of egos for Hip-Hop Hero, where Patrick Nupert and Mickeal Finistere play out street clichés. Try as he might, Singh-Barmi can't possibly match their coolness. Johnson's hybrid vocabulary - from hip-hop to contemporary dance - seems let own by the overly long theatrical frame he hangs the action on. But after the mesmerising trio that ends Fuzion, you would forgive him anything. (Ends tonight.)
