Butt, RTÉ NSO/Markson: National Concert Hall, Dublin. Martin Adams Kevin O'Connell - North. Schumann - Cello Concerto. Beethoven - Symphony No 5
The RTÉ National Symphony Orchestra is on tour with a judicious and enjoyable programme. The second half features Beethoven's Fifth Symphony; the first has two completely contrasted works, each neatly balancing strong musical intellect with ready communication.
Schumann's Cello Concerto stands outside the standard 19th-century mould, close to the baroque and Mozartian first-among-equals concept. Being one of those late Schumann works that seem to spring from a single thought, it would be an intellectual conceit were the results not so compelling.
Kevin O'Connell's North (1997) is a 20-minute, two-movement work that sprang partly from the composer's long familiarity with Seamus Heaney's poems of that name. As O'Connell explained, in one of the most thought-provoking pre-concert talks I have heard, such relationships are not amenable to precise analysis. Idea is more important than style; and technique is not explanation but the means.
North could be written only by a composer with a profound sense of history - musical first, but also cultural and personal. Stylistic comparisons explain nothing, however. This disciplined, vivid music sets out its stall and fills its own space. Even at this, my second hearing, I was not fully persuaded about the way it ends. But maybe that's the point: it keeps you wondering.
This was a strong concert in everything that matters. The cellist was William Butt, whose view of the Schumann had an integrity and expressive scope as unified as the music itself. Conductor Gerhard Markson and the orchestra handled their contribution with subtle care, and that was also true of North. But why did they not do all the repeats in the Beethoven symphony's scherzo and finale? It lessened the impact of an intelligent, utterly gripping performance.
Tours to Galway today, Limerick tomorrow, Cork on Thursday and Waterford on Friday
Ger Sweeney
Triskel Arts Centre, Cork. Mark Ewart.
The most distinctive aspect of this exhibition of paintings by Ger Sweeney is the consistency of his approach to colour and pictorial abstraction. The arrangement and display of the work enhance this unity even further, as the proximity of individual pieces suggests an interaction akin to installation-based practice. From certain vantage points the paintings seem to blend into one another, enveloping the viewer in shape and colour.
A chord, as it were, of black, red and white, with variations of grey tones and the occasional flash of violet or turquoise, resolutely establishes Sweeney's colour range. As such, the potential for colour to be a diverse or experimental facet of expression is not one of his central concerns. Instead, Sweeney's purposefully restricted colour range establishes a sense of conviction and intense investigation of the full potential of his concept.
The application of the paint itself is also at the heart of Sweeney's practice, the surfaces demonstrating a sense of drama and brooding atmosphere. At times the paint is dragged or smeared in a spontaneous way, creating flat bands of colour. This is offset by more nebulous textures. The compositions then are characterised by the conflict and tensions between these two facets.
The abstract sensibility of these paintings seems initially to be their defining attribute. But closer inspection reveals a very discrete suggestion of landscape and sky, with occasional details of foliage or ramshackle buildings in the distance. That said, the compositions are dominated by predominately geometric concerns as planes and shapes interact to create a fractal distortion of aerial perspective, not unlike the effect of a kaleidoscope. This lends energy to the work, suggesting an absorbing sense of turbulence and movement.
Runs until December 18th
Mark Lanegan Band. The Village, Dublin. Ed Power.
Mark Lanegan is possibly the scariest man in rock. With his skeletal jawline and wild, pin-prick eyes he looks like a cross between a deranged preacher and a cadaver. Add the tattooed knuckles and a voice that could strip tarmac and you've got a songwriter who would spook Marilyn Manson.
Lanegan's music is closer to wilderness blues than gothic hokum, however. He first came to our attention as front man of Screaming Trees, the rootsy grunge band that made Nirvana and Pearl Jam sound bubbly. His solo output is in a similar vein: dark and visceral, with tinges of American folk and west coast psychedelia.
Taking the stage with a scowl that could probably frighten small animals to death, Lanegan was at his most inscrutable during this show. Perhaps it was some profound unhappiness that caused him to glower throughout. Or maybe he was fretting that he'd left the iron plugged in at home. All you knew for certain was that he was more likely to spontaneously combust than to crack a smile.
Although ostensibly promoting his new album, Here Comes That Weird Chill, he drew liberally from his back catalogue, mixing unnerving bar ballads, seething grunge and towering psychedelic workouts, several of which seemed to go on for longer than all three Lord Of The Rings films.
Unusually for a songwriter, Lanegan seldom takes up an instrument, relying instead on those remarkable sandpaper vocals. It is a voice to illuminate the most humdrum material, which is just as well, as stretches of the concert lapsed into meandering sludge metal of a sort only men with perms and PVC trousers consider edgy. Forays into folk and blues fared better as Lanegan's four-piece band stepped from his shadow and cranked out a hellish racket. They tended to over-egg it: the spectre of Spinal Tap's "jazz odyssey" hovered perilously close at times. So stormy was Lanegan's presence, though, that your giggles froze on your lips.
Quite what those who know Lanegan solely as an occasional member of the metal supergroup Queens of the Stone Age thought of this brooding, occasionally indulgent performance is hard to tell. Some will have been inspired, others bored rigid. And a few may have had trouble sleeping afterwards.
