Live Reviews
- Folk From Here
Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, York, England
7 May 2008
Folk From Here is a programme of music composed for the specially-formed ensemble of Kuljit Bhamra (tabla/percussion) and Jonathan Mayer (sitar), both eminent performers of Indian classical music; Marie Fielding, a fiddler from the Scottish folk tradition; and Kathryn Tickell (Northumbrian pipes/fiddle) and Julian Sutton (melodeon), both well-known exponents of British folk music.
The brainchild of Kuljit Bhamra, current artistic director of the Society for the Promotion of New Music (SPNM) in the UK, Folk From Here was the culmination of a five-month SPNM project in which the members of the ensemble worked with four composers represented by the Society.
What a joy it must have been to compose for this group! It offers a mix of music-making practices, not just a mix of instruments. Precise notation was probably not always the best way for the composers to get what they wanted from the ensemble – a reminder that the notation of the Western art music tradition began as nothing more than a memory aid; a reminder of that continuum between composer and performer.
It’s also a reminder that no one tradition of music-making lies untouched by outside influences. It’s John Cage: ‘interpenetration without obstruction’.
Bhamra and Tickell opened with a tabla–pipes duet, which segued into Bhamra’s dexterous ensemble piece, High Tea in D. The ensemble’s rich and varied sonic palette became apparent in the numerous solo and duo sections.
A sure hand was also at work in Bhamra’s Punjabi Mela, which seemed to weave together procedures from both British folk and Indian classical musics, producing a seamless fabric.
Marie Fielding’s Deep C (which Jonathan Mayer sat out) sounded reminiscent of traditional Irish music, with the tabla fulfilling the role of a bodhrán and providing a constant rhythmic ostinato. Fielding found a practice common to two groups of traditions and worked with that.
Neither Punjabi Mela nor Deep C particularly blew my hair back nor did Jonathan Booty’s Sankahra. Sankahra came across as well timed and effectively shaped, but I couldn’t help feeling that there was an opportunity lost: the opening and closing material, which centered around a sustained double-stop on fiddle, rather than framing the piece, could have been the focus of the piece.
Adam Melvin’s Ripples and Bright Sparks seemed diffuse to me. Sutton’s dominant, graceful melodeon playing was a pleasure, but the material didn’t capture my ears, nor did the form persuade me.
Most successful were Nick Redfern’s And on the breeze a song and Laurence Rose’s Five Rivers. Redfern mixed the colours of the ensemble with skill and focus within the context of a predominantly static texture. Rose made an individual use of a form that seemed modeled on the unmetred–metred alap/jhala structures found in Indian classical music. I was reminded of Lou Harrison’s Double Concerto for violin, cello and Javanese Gamelan.
Tellingly, a set of reels performed by Tickell, Fielding and Sutton didn’t make the rest of the concert sound like ill-conceived dilution or mis-directed experimentalism. It was simply music in the British folk tradition performed by expert practitioners with great commitment.
The end was as well-judged as the beginning: Tickell’s Sparty Lea finished the evening with another alap/jhala-like form with melodic materials derived from English folk music.
- Phill Niblock
Crash Ensemble, Trio Scordatura, Susan Stenger (flute)
Temple Bar Galleries, Dublin
23 April 2008
This concert of music by Phill Niblock – the ‘forgotten minimalist’ – had the feel of a ‘happening’, spread out over the four back floors of the Temple Bar Galleries, a throwback to the 1960s, Andy Warhol-esque experiences with film projections. Niblock has disciples and acolytes, and was interviewed by one, Bob Gilmore, beforehand. To say that Niblock was reticent would be an understatement. His answers were as uncommunicative as his music.
Niblock’s music seems to have varied little over nearly 50 years: drones amplified loudly reverberate and reflect from the surfaces that contain the performance, creating certain acoustic effects that vary as the listener walks through the space. Niblock pre-records the drones using live musicians, then edits out their breathing spaces to create a dense sound mass. For this performance he used pre-prepared recordings, augmented by live preformances from the Crash Ensemble, Trio Scordatura and Susan Stenger, all of whom attempted to connect with the static harmonies. This is interesting in theory, and for a while it is, but the relentlessness and length of the pieces became wearisome. In fact, the introduction of the ‘live’ musicians, despite watching them start to play and stop, seemed to have no effect upon the musical edifice created. This is Niblock’s intention and the musician’s ambition, but to me felt pointless, like trying to touch someone you love behind glass.
At the beginning of his career Niblock did the editing by hand, on tape, creating artifacts that were certainly technically impressive. Since 2000 he uses ProTools, utilising up to 32 tracks to create incredibly ‘thick’ pieces. Niblock warns, ‘I try to make pieces that don’t have development’, and with running times of 15, 19, 32, 23, 25 and 24 minutes respectively, the listener must take notice. Cage said: ‘In Zen thay say: If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, try it for eight, sixteen, thirty-two, and so on. Eventually one discovers that it is not boring at all but very interesting.’
That said, many around me seemed transported by the drone, sitting with eyes closed in a trance-like state. But for me, there is something uncompromising and 1968 about all this, which is perhaps to be admired, but is also a little alienating in the consequent century. Niblock’s creations are true to themselves, but are autistic, not interested in their listener.
‘A tribute to the profound mystery of acoustics – and perhaps to the wine we had been drinking,’ wrote Tom Johnson in the Village Voice in 1972. Stone cold sober perhaps there are reasons why Phil Niblock is the forgotten minimalist.
Temple Bar Galleries, Dublin
23 April 2008
This concert of music by Phill Niblock – the ‘forgotten minimalist’ – had the feel of a ‘happening’, spread out over the four back floors of the Temple Bar Galleries, a throwback to the 1960s, Andy Warhol-esque experiences with film projections. Niblock has disciples and acolytes, and was interviewed by one, Bob Gilmore, beforehand. To say that Niblock was reticent would be an understatement. His answers were as uncommunicative as his music.
Niblock’s music seems to have varied little over nearly 50 years: drones amplified loudly reverberate and reflect from the surfaces that contain the performance, creating certain acoustic effects that vary as the listener walks through the space. Niblock pre-records the drones using live musicians, then edits out their breathing spaces to create a dense sound mass. For this performance he used pre-prepared recordings, augmented by live preformances from the Crash Ensemble, Trio Scordatura and Susan Stenger, all of whom attempted to connect with the static harmonies. This is interesting in theory, and for a while it is, but the relentlessness and length of the pieces became wearisome. In fact, the introduction of the ‘live’ musicians, despite watching them start to play and stop, seemed to have no effect upon the musical edifice created. This is Niblock’s intention and the musician’s ambition, but to me felt pointless, like trying to touch someone you love behind glass.
At the beginning of his career Niblock did the editing by hand, on tape, creating artifacts that were certainly technically impressive. Since 2000 he uses ProTools, utilising up to 32 tracks to create incredibly ‘thick’ pieces. Niblock warns, ‘I try to make pieces that don’t have development’, and with running times of 15, 19, 32, 23, 25 and 24 minutes respectively, the listener must take notice. Cage said: ‘In Zen thay say: If something is boring after two minutes, try it for four. If still boring, try it for eight, sixteen, thirty-two, and so on. Eventually one discovers that it is not boring at all but very interesting.’
That said, many around me seemed transported by the drone, sitting with eyes closed in a trance-like state. But for me, there is something uncompromising and 1968 about all this, which is perhaps to be admired, but is also a little alienating in the consequent century. Niblock’s creations are true to themselves, but are autistic, not interested in their listener.
‘A tribute to the profound mystery of acoustics – and perhaps to the wine we had been drinking,’ wrote Tom Johnson in the Village Voice in 1972. Stone cold sober perhaps there are reasons why Phil Niblock is the forgotten minimalist.
- Tarab
Francesco Turrisi (piano), Gabrielle Mirabassi (clarinet), Roman Bunka (oud), Ronan Guilfoyle (bass), Bijan Chemirani (percussion)
National Concert Hall, Dublin
24 April 2008
Two Italians, a German, an Irishman and a Franco-Iranian (or Irano-Frenchman)... Piano, clarinet, oud, bass guitar and percussion... Three cultural institutes and the Improvised Music Company... What should we expect? Jazz with a touch of world? A bit of this, a bit of that? A musical purée? As it happened, we needn’t have worried. Francesco Turrisi’s Tarab knew where they were going. From their base in Italy, they were going to let the Mediterranean breezes blow them East and West, North and South, through Turkey to the Arab world and back. The political map of the Mediterranean would show a large blue sea surrounded by clearly defined, differently coloured political units. But there’s another map that we should keep in mind. For thousands of years the Mediterranean has been a space crossed and recrossed by all kinds of forces: traders, fishermen, pirates, soldiers, scholars, Crusaders, colonists, refugees, adventurers, mystics, misfits – and musicians.
Francesco Turrisi, the leader of Tarab, is quite typical of Italian jazz, both in his interest in melody and in his openness to the folk and popular idioms of his own country and of its neighbours (taking that word in the most generous sense). The version of Tarab that performed in the NCH embodied such openness in its personnel as well as in the treatment of the material.
In his own solos, Turrisi tended to move themes from their folk roots or melodic base into freer territory before wending his way back towards the group. Fellow-Italian Gabrielle Mirabassi stayed closer to the original motif but sent it spinning through endless variations, with delightful command of timing and tone. The German oud player, Roman Bunka, has spent a lot of time working with Egyptian and other musicians, to the point where he seemed to be a Middle Eastern voice rather than a European voice with a Middle Eastern inflection. On bass guitar, Ireland’s Ronan Guilfoyle never sounded like a product of the Mediterranean, but the steady patterns he laid down and his almost plump deep notes had an important role in earthing the group sound, which might otherwise have become too airy. Guilfoyle also entered into productive dialogue with Bijan Chemirani, the young percussionist.
In a trio very much led by their father, Bijan Chemirani and his brother played in Mulhouse, France, a couple of years back. Working with the elements of Iranian tradition, the three percussionists collaborated in a demonstration of mutual understanding and almost casual virtuosity on the frame drum. Chemirani was equally at ease here, in a context which showcased his traditional patterning skills but also gave him the freedom to interact in a more individual style with his fellow-players.
In the wrong hands, the breadth of repertoire displayed by Tarab could come across as a rather meaningless cross-cultural anthology, but the group identity was both strong and versatile enough to make this a real journey rather than a collection of holiday snaps. We were led from the classical Arab world to Naples and other regions of Italy, the Lebanon and Turkey, with a Nick Roth-arranged klezmer interlude along the way. The journey was pleasantly unrushed, without the emphasis on mechanical massed climax that makes so much stadium trad – and some free jazz – tedious these days. Turrisi deserves credit for trusting his musicians in this way, starting and finishing in thoughtful mood and varying the pace throughout. Mirabassi could probably blow his own socks off time and again if he wanted to, but he preferred to trace the sinuous (arabesque?) lines of his imagination.
As the encore, ‘Tu Bella’, came to an end, audience and musicians could go their way contented.
National Concert Hall, Dublin
24 April 2008
Two Italians, a German, an Irishman and a Franco-Iranian (or Irano-Frenchman)... Piano, clarinet, oud, bass guitar and percussion... Three cultural institutes and the Improvised Music Company... What should we expect? Jazz with a touch of world? A bit of this, a bit of that? A musical purée? As it happened, we needn’t have worried. Francesco Turrisi’s Tarab knew where they were going. From their base in Italy, they were going to let the Mediterranean breezes blow them East and West, North and South, through Turkey to the Arab world and back. The political map of the Mediterranean would show a large blue sea surrounded by clearly defined, differently coloured political units. But there’s another map that we should keep in mind. For thousands of years the Mediterranean has been a space crossed and recrossed by all kinds of forces: traders, fishermen, pirates, soldiers, scholars, Crusaders, colonists, refugees, adventurers, mystics, misfits – and musicians.
Francesco Turrisi, the leader of Tarab, is quite typical of Italian jazz, both in his interest in melody and in his openness to the folk and popular idioms of his own country and of its neighbours (taking that word in the most generous sense). The version of Tarab that performed in the NCH embodied such openness in its personnel as well as in the treatment of the material.
In his own solos, Turrisi tended to move themes from their folk roots or melodic base into freer territory before wending his way back towards the group. Fellow-Italian Gabrielle Mirabassi stayed closer to the original motif but sent it spinning through endless variations, with delightful command of timing and tone. The German oud player, Roman Bunka, has spent a lot of time working with Egyptian and other musicians, to the point where he seemed to be a Middle Eastern voice rather than a European voice with a Middle Eastern inflection. On bass guitar, Ireland’s Ronan Guilfoyle never sounded like a product of the Mediterranean, but the steady patterns he laid down and his almost plump deep notes had an important role in earthing the group sound, which might otherwise have become too airy. Guilfoyle also entered into productive dialogue with Bijan Chemirani, the young percussionist.
In a trio very much led by their father, Bijan Chemirani and his brother played in Mulhouse, France, a couple of years back. Working with the elements of Iranian tradition, the three percussionists collaborated in a demonstration of mutual understanding and almost casual virtuosity on the frame drum. Chemirani was equally at ease here, in a context which showcased his traditional patterning skills but also gave him the freedom to interact in a more individual style with his fellow-players.
In the wrong hands, the breadth of repertoire displayed by Tarab could come across as a rather meaningless cross-cultural anthology, but the group identity was both strong and versatile enough to make this a real journey rather than a collection of holiday snaps. We were led from the classical Arab world to Naples and other regions of Italy, the Lebanon and Turkey, with a Nick Roth-arranged klezmer interlude along the way. The journey was pleasantly unrushed, without the emphasis on mechanical massed climax that makes so much stadium trad – and some free jazz – tedious these days. Turrisi deserves credit for trusting his musicians in this way, starting and finishing in thoughtful mood and varying the pace throughout. Mirabassi could probably blow his own socks off time and again if he wanted to, but he preferred to trace the sinuous (arabesque?) lines of his imagination.
As the encore, ‘Tu Bella’, came to an end, audience and musicians could go their way contented.
- Dave Binney Quartet
Dave Binney (alto saxophone), Craig Taborn (piano), Scott Colley (bass), Brian Blade (drums)
Whelan’s, Dublin
12 May 2008
Over the last few months, music fans here have been treated to a steady flow of visiting artists who, in one way or another, are expanding the range and texture of the jazz tradition. Among others, drummer Han Binnink, cellist Erik Friedlander, and guitarist Brad Shepik delivered Irish performances that attest to the health and diversity of the current international scene, from Shepik’s Balkan-inspired lingua franca to Friedlander’s technically astonishing solo journey through America, inspired by his photographer father.
The Dave Binney Quartet added to the season’s riches with a short Irish tour in May that finished in Dublin with a powerhouse display by some of the finest talent the New York scene has to offer. Each member of this group is one of the best in the business, and collectively they play with verve and sympathy that come from long association and mutual musical goals.
As a player, Binney has terrific technique and a dark, reedy tone reminiscent of Gary Bartz. Though his studio output includes many fine examples of mainstream swinging (he has recorded tunes by Ellington, Monk and Shorter), in concert he features his own writing, which moves between the elegiac and the ecstatic and draws on a rich variety of contexts, including rock and world music.
The Dublin show featured long, episodic compositions, with idiosyncratic arrangements and plenty of room for improvisation. Like Shorter, Binney likes rhythmic surprise and memorable melodies. His tunes tend to start ruminatively, building on Craig Taborn’s remarkable piano textures and leading to extended byplay between instruments that is quite different from the classic sequencing of jazz solos.
The segmented, contemplative ‘Gesturecalm’ leaned heavily on Scott Colley, who, like Dave Holland, fills a room with his ringing bass lines. Taborn, who never seems to run out of ideas, shone on ‘London’ and ‘Toronto’, tunes from Binney’s recording Cities and Desire, an ‘aural travelogue’ that documents cities that have become regular stops for him over the years. It’s hard to see (or hear) how these tunes suggest actual places, but they certainly work as compositions, thoughtfully structured, with open-ended solo passages that always fit with the writing.
Whether repeating a simple phrase or playing high-speed arpeggios, Binney’s alto sits on top of his rhythm section very comfortably. Throughout the evening, Brian Blade showed why he is the drummer of choice for so many – tasteful, responsive, with huge power that was all the more evident for his consistent restraint. The music never felt forced, yet was always fresh and challenging. Though it took Binney a while to warm up, he ended with a bang. His encore, ‘Last Minute’, a simple post-bop tune full of spirited call-and-response trade-offs, generated real heat and left the audience roaring with approval.
Whelan’s, Dublin
12 May 2008
Over the last few months, music fans here have been treated to a steady flow of visiting artists who, in one way or another, are expanding the range and texture of the jazz tradition. Among others, drummer Han Binnink, cellist Erik Friedlander, and guitarist Brad Shepik delivered Irish performances that attest to the health and diversity of the current international scene, from Shepik’s Balkan-inspired lingua franca to Friedlander’s technically astonishing solo journey through America, inspired by his photographer father.
The Dave Binney Quartet added to the season’s riches with a short Irish tour in May that finished in Dublin with a powerhouse display by some of the finest talent the New York scene has to offer. Each member of this group is one of the best in the business, and collectively they play with verve and sympathy that come from long association and mutual musical goals.
As a player, Binney has terrific technique and a dark, reedy tone reminiscent of Gary Bartz. Though his studio output includes many fine examples of mainstream swinging (he has recorded tunes by Ellington, Monk and Shorter), in concert he features his own writing, which moves between the elegiac and the ecstatic and draws on a rich variety of contexts, including rock and world music.
The Dublin show featured long, episodic compositions, with idiosyncratic arrangements and plenty of room for improvisation. Like Shorter, Binney likes rhythmic surprise and memorable melodies. His tunes tend to start ruminatively, building on Craig Taborn’s remarkable piano textures and leading to extended byplay between instruments that is quite different from the classic sequencing of jazz solos.
The segmented, contemplative ‘Gesturecalm’ leaned heavily on Scott Colley, who, like Dave Holland, fills a room with his ringing bass lines. Taborn, who never seems to run out of ideas, shone on ‘London’ and ‘Toronto’, tunes from Binney’s recording Cities and Desire, an ‘aural travelogue’ that documents cities that have become regular stops for him over the years. It’s hard to see (or hear) how these tunes suggest actual places, but they certainly work as compositions, thoughtfully structured, with open-ended solo passages that always fit with the writing.
Whether repeating a simple phrase or playing high-speed arpeggios, Binney’s alto sits on top of his rhythm section very comfortably. Throughout the evening, Brian Blade showed why he is the drummer of choice for so many – tasteful, responsive, with huge power that was all the more evident for his consistent restraint. The music never felt forced, yet was always fresh and challenging. Though it took Binney a while to warm up, he ended with a bang. His encore, ‘Last Minute’, a simple post-bop tune full of spirited call-and-response trade-offs, generated real heat and left the audience roaring with approval.
- Ian Wilson's Harbouring
Dermot Dunne (accordion), Gorey Choral Group, Enniscorthy Choral Society, Wexford Festival Singers, Whisht Traditional Singers, Irish Chamber Orchestra, Conductor: Fergus Sheil
White’s Hotel, Wexford
5 June 2008
June saw the world premiere of Ian Wilson’s Harbouring, a 50-minute cantata exploring the concept of ‘harbour’ both literally and, as the composer put it, as ‘a metaphor for aspects of human life and experience.’ The work sets nine poems, interspersed with seven short instrumental interludes, which both comment on what has just been heard and set the scene for what is to come.Musically, the piece is in a clear, tonal, neoclassical idiom. Canonic entries and ostinati abound. Although not entirely representative of this composer’s personal aesthetic, the work does display all the craftsmanship, architectonic sense and subtle ear for colour that those who know his work have come to expect.
Apart from the interludes, the orchestra served mainly to double the vocal lines, helping to secure the intonation. Generally, the texts were set in a straightforward strophic manner, though the opening of the fifth movement, a setting of Alice Oswald’s ‘Seabirds’ Blessing’, made very effective use of wordless singing, over which a solo soprano sang the text. For the final ‘benediction’ the full chorus picked up the text, building to an invigoratingly rhythmic conclusion. In an introductory talk, the composer was self-effacing – indeed almost apologetic – about the supposed dissonance of this movement. There was no need for any apology – this was atmospheric music of the highest order.
The interludes focused on the solo accordion and orchestra. Dermot Dunne was a committed and sensitive advocate. His first entry, linking the opening chorus with the first interlude was a miracle of subtlety – fading in as if from nowhere, perhaps evoking the first misty sighting of land after a long and hazardous voyage. Throughout, phrasing was beautifully shaped, articulation clear, and dynamics perfectly controlled. His playing was as always a sheer delight.
The Irish Chamber Orchestra supported the choir well and created a very lush sound world. The playing was exemplary, with meticulous attention to every detail of the score. This was particularly noticeable in the seventh interlude, where the string pizzicati shaded from very soft to near silence. The coloristic range – quite remarkable for so small an ensemble – gave ample evidence of the quality of both orchestra and conductor.
There were a few brief moments of uncertainty in intonation in the choir, but these were quickly rectified – far more typical was the security displayed in the treacherously exposed a cappella sections in the last movement. All in all, the performance was a tribute to all involved. Special mention must be made of the choral directors, Eithne Corrigan and Donagh Wylde, for their commitment to bringing such a large-scale new work to fruition.
White’s Hotel, Wexford
5 June 2008
June saw the world premiere of Ian Wilson’s Harbouring, a 50-minute cantata exploring the concept of ‘harbour’ both literally and, as the composer put it, as ‘a metaphor for aspects of human life and experience.’ The work sets nine poems, interspersed with seven short instrumental interludes, which both comment on what has just been heard and set the scene for what is to come.Musically, the piece is in a clear, tonal, neoclassical idiom. Canonic entries and ostinati abound. Although not entirely representative of this composer’s personal aesthetic, the work does display all the craftsmanship, architectonic sense and subtle ear for colour that those who know his work have come to expect.
Apart from the interludes, the orchestra served mainly to double the vocal lines, helping to secure the intonation. Generally, the texts were set in a straightforward strophic manner, though the opening of the fifth movement, a setting of Alice Oswald’s ‘Seabirds’ Blessing’, made very effective use of wordless singing, over which a solo soprano sang the text. For the final ‘benediction’ the full chorus picked up the text, building to an invigoratingly rhythmic conclusion. In an introductory talk, the composer was self-effacing – indeed almost apologetic – about the supposed dissonance of this movement. There was no need for any apology – this was atmospheric music of the highest order.
The interludes focused on the solo accordion and orchestra. Dermot Dunne was a committed and sensitive advocate. His first entry, linking the opening chorus with the first interlude was a miracle of subtlety – fading in as if from nowhere, perhaps evoking the first misty sighting of land after a long and hazardous voyage. Throughout, phrasing was beautifully shaped, articulation clear, and dynamics perfectly controlled. His playing was as always a sheer delight.
The Irish Chamber Orchestra supported the choir well and created a very lush sound world. The playing was exemplary, with meticulous attention to every detail of the score. This was particularly noticeable in the seventh interlude, where the string pizzicati shaded from very soft to near silence. The coloristic range – quite remarkable for so small an ensemble – gave ample evidence of the quality of both orchestra and conductor.
There were a few brief moments of uncertainty in intonation in the choir, but these were quickly rectified – far more typical was the security displayed in the treacherously exposed a cappella sections in the last movement. All in all, the performance was a tribute to all involved. Special mention must be made of the choral directors, Eithne Corrigan and Donagh Wylde, for their commitment to bringing such a large-scale new work to fruition.
- Bobby McFerrin
National Concert Hall, Dublin
26 May 2008
When I was eight years old, the biggest thrill of the week was the ten o’clock children’s mass. As the reverend monsignor skipped his way through the formalities of the service, all we children wanted was for him to call us all up onto the altar to recite – and act out – the ‘Our Father’ with him. Father Devine held a captive audience with the further promise of the rare but highly valued tours of the sacristy when he was in the mood.
I had forgotten this innocent excitement until the lights of the National Concert Hall dimmed to leave only four monitors, a chair and a bottle of water in the light. Shouts of ‘welcome back’ and ‘we love you’ greet Bobby McFerrin’s return to Ireland after three years; his audience remains ever faithful. A beaming smile and a simple bow, microphone to head: McFerrin’s own idiosyncratic, hindu-esque gesture. Then silence.
Stylistically, McFerrin presents a complex show. He sings in three independent, yet complimentary, voices: a growling contrabass, his more natural pop baritone and a haunting counter-tenor, all supported by a dazzling array of mouth noises and the omnipresent off-beat pounded on the chest. In this show without an interval, these contrasting sounds feed the momentum. An ostinato bass and baritone arpeggios support the alto melody, all sung at a fierce clip.
McFerrin breaks from the improvised polyphony with a slow, keening Scottish lament. Then all of a sudden he’s pointing at us: Father Devine has finally invited us up to the altar. His eyes, burning with intensity, demand ‘sing this!’ We support an extended North-African melisma, stopped by a casual but deliberate gesture: there is no questioning the man’s wishes, no time to think about not joining in. McFerrin ceases being a star performer, becoming just another singer in this great ad-hoc choir of children at play.
McFerrin is joined by various guests during the performance. A slightly over-zealous dancer drawn from the audience; a duet with otherwise-excellent bodhrán player Robbie Harris seems a shade forced until Hothouse Flowers frontman Liam Ó Maonlaí completes the trio for ten minutes of joyous improvisation. But the crowning glory of McFerrin’s collaborations on the night was his volunteer choir: thirty or so singers, each obeying his every instruction. Although the imbalance of enthusiasm and experience led to inherent tuning problems and an overall poor sound, the choir showed McFerrin at his best, captivating a group of all ages.
McFerrin could do without some of the more pandering moments of the show – his re-enactment of The Wizard of Oz was impressive and funny but unneccesary and unseemingly graceless, but his talents for both music and showmanship are great. His performance transcends language, age and culture. He may have lost some of the vigour and quirkiness of his first gigs twenty-five years ago, but he hasn’t lost an ounce of style.
26 May 2008
When I was eight years old, the biggest thrill of the week was the ten o’clock children’s mass. As the reverend monsignor skipped his way through the formalities of the service, all we children wanted was for him to call us all up onto the altar to recite – and act out – the ‘Our Father’ with him. Father Devine held a captive audience with the further promise of the rare but highly valued tours of the sacristy when he was in the mood.
I had forgotten this innocent excitement until the lights of the National Concert Hall dimmed to leave only four monitors, a chair and a bottle of water in the light. Shouts of ‘welcome back’ and ‘we love you’ greet Bobby McFerrin’s return to Ireland after three years; his audience remains ever faithful. A beaming smile and a simple bow, microphone to head: McFerrin’s own idiosyncratic, hindu-esque gesture. Then silence.
Stylistically, McFerrin presents a complex show. He sings in three independent, yet complimentary, voices: a growling contrabass, his more natural pop baritone and a haunting counter-tenor, all supported by a dazzling array of mouth noises and the omnipresent off-beat pounded on the chest. In this show without an interval, these contrasting sounds feed the momentum. An ostinato bass and baritone arpeggios support the alto melody, all sung at a fierce clip.
McFerrin breaks from the improvised polyphony with a slow, keening Scottish lament. Then all of a sudden he’s pointing at us: Father Devine has finally invited us up to the altar. His eyes, burning with intensity, demand ‘sing this!’ We support an extended North-African melisma, stopped by a casual but deliberate gesture: there is no questioning the man’s wishes, no time to think about not joining in. McFerrin ceases being a star performer, becoming just another singer in this great ad-hoc choir of children at play.
McFerrin is joined by various guests during the performance. A slightly over-zealous dancer drawn from the audience; a duet with otherwise-excellent bodhrán player Robbie Harris seems a shade forced until Hothouse Flowers frontman Liam Ó Maonlaí completes the trio for ten minutes of joyous improvisation. But the crowning glory of McFerrin’s collaborations on the night was his volunteer choir: thirty or so singers, each obeying his every instruction. Although the imbalance of enthusiasm and experience led to inherent tuning problems and an overall poor sound, the choir showed McFerrin at his best, captivating a group of all ages.
McFerrin could do without some of the more pandering moments of the show – his re-enactment of The Wizard of Oz was impressive and funny but unneccesary and unseemingly graceless, but his talents for both music and showmanship are great. His performance transcends language, age and culture. He may have lost some of the vigour and quirkiness of his first gigs twenty-five years ago, but he hasn’t lost an ounce of style.