Irish Times' reviews of Joan Baez at Vicar Street and Best of Irish Music Network Tour at Bank of Ireland, Foster Place.

Joan Baez

Vicar St, Dublin

Siobhán Long

She belongs to a long and distinguished line: from Woody Guthrie to Pete Seeger, Johnny Cash, Bob Dylan, Steve Earle and Billy Bragg. Joan Baez has always been able to articulate her politics in a way that galvanised her disciples and rattled her opponents, her forensic attention to detail giving her the equivalent of a bullet-proof vest.

Anyone who came expecting a stroll down memory lane, a gentle sing-along to The Night They Drove Ol' Dixie Down might have left disappointed - but nobody did. Because Baez whupped us right into the noughties with a swathe of songs borrowed not from the usual suspects (Robbie Robertson, Bob Dylan) but from young turks such as Ryan Adams, Gillian Welch, Josh Ritter and Natalie Merchant.

Those vocal cords may have passed a few more years in the smokery, but time has been good to them, honing and shaping them so that they wrap all the more effortlessly around her repertoire than ever before. She still has that range, still hits the ceiling at will. It's her speaking voice that has taken the brunt of the ageing process: creaking occasionally, but still fired by a spirit that won't be cowed by the mere passing of years. From the opening cords of Steve Earle's Christmas In Washington, you just know that Baez walks it like she talks it. Having apologised for the warmongering behaviour of the US administration, she proceeded to wake us up to the same perils and broken promises that Woody Guthrie sang about all those years ago in Deportees.

But this was no lecture tour, no grandstanding affair. Instead, she roped us in, and let us revel in the joy of the music. And even with a nasal tribute to Dylan, a hip-swivelling bow towards Elvis and a raft of magnificent songs (scaffolded by a fine four-piece band), she could still knock the socks off most live performers this side of the Rio Grande. And yes, her parting shot, Amazing Grace, was enough to agitate the hairs on the back of your neck. It's a little premature to start talking about gigs of the year . . . but somehow it's likely this one will rear its head long after the cold of January is forgotten.

Best of Irish Music Network Tour

Bank of Ireland, Foster Place, Dublin

Siobhan Long

It was a night of jagged edges and fluid lines. Tune sets that celebrated their makers (John Egan, Padraig O'Keeffe, Paddy Molony), but still managed to languish too often in the mire where instruments struggled to find a comfortable place alongside one another. At best, they soared momentarily, buoyed by the spark of guests Seán Potts Senior on whistle and Johnny Mulhearne on guitar. But at worst they loitered with intent, like athletes who couldn't quite agree on whether a relay or a marathon was their best event.

Individually they paid ample tribute to the music. Seán Potts Junior led magnificently by example, tackling the finer points of the slow air, Sliabh Na mBan and the intricate two steps of The Girls Of The Factory as if they were mere practice lines, replete with decorous adornments that lodged the tunes firmly in the memory banks. Kevin Glackin's fiddle reflected its owner's wiry personality, swing shifting from the fine lines of a self-composed slow air to an ebullient hornpipe borrowed from Paddy Cronin, but somehow too often he lost momentum and let the tunes struggle asthmatically for breath, as though the great domed ceiling of their grand venue was sucking the very life from them.

Paul McGrattan, ever the modest player, aired a store of tunes ably, but with an occasional restraint that belied his considerable skills in phrasing. At his most comfortable, he relished a mischievous set of reels bookended by borrowings from the late Micho Russell and Mary McNamara, leading them on a merry dance that showcased their divine simplicity, but elsewhere his flute languished in the back row, with a diffidence that sucked the air back into the instrument instead of letting it circle high and free above the packed audience.

But it was Seán Tyrrell's contributions which were most puzzling of all.

Rarely fusing his songs with his companions, his repertoire sat uneasily alongside the tunes, with Glackin occasionally attempting a diluted accompaniment to his serrated delivery of Easy And Slow, as well as a brace of Johnny Mulhearne songs. His accompaniment on guitar was equally bizarre, as if voice and strings were at odds rather than in agreement on the tune's pathway.

It was a curious affair. Seán Potts Junior and Senior revelled in the glory of the moment, trawling through an encyclopaedic back catalogue with relish.

But while they all soared during ensemble sets, individually they languished as if reluctant to fully inhale the sweet scent of a packed house ready to applaud their every note. Respectful and eclectic, but oddly dissatisfying.