Reviews

Irish Timeswriters review a selection of events

Aladdin

Cork Opera House

Mary Leland

If any expense has been spared for the Opera House production of Aladdin it isn't obvious - least of all the expenditure of what might be called sweat equity; this is a high-quality presentation emitting enough energy to power the national grid without losing a veneer composed of topicality and sophistication.

Director Bryan Flynn's basic script is delivered with relish by Trevor Ryan as the sorcerer whose attempts to find the magic lamp drive what might, if one were generous, be called the plot. His attitude is typical, and a kind of manic enthusiasm links both cast and audience (already committed and enthusiastic, it must be said) in a series of daft but enjoyable episodes.

This isn't just gaiety and song-and-dance left to get on with it though - there's a measure of sophistication and professionalism which defines both performances and production values. The ornate and versatile sets (supplied by Kevin Wood Productions) are handled with a precision which only falters once or twice.

These establish the atmosphere of wonderment and excitement; a detail hinting at the over-all approach is the row of footlights disguised as little magic lanterns from which the pryotechnics explode with satisfying impact.

That approach is wholesomely non-PC: we are in Peking, ruled by a Sultana, where a bewildering interplay of multi-cultural references (at one point uniting The X Factor, Star Wars and the GAA) provides the elements of the story-line, which is constantly and happily interrupted by the chorus-line.

The dancing (choreography by Jonathan FitzGerald) is good, the singing (musical director Dave Doc O'Connor supplying a strong list of popular favourites which set my entire row of seats rocking) is better, Tim Mascall's lighting has a space-age brilliance which is almost choreographic in itself.

If there is a problem it is the old one of lack of modulation: Lawrence White is credited with sound design but the tricky business of managing amplification defeats this cast, as so many others.

However, this just adds to the voltage, much of which is supplied, apparently tirelessly, by the Aladdin of Killian Twomey: his work-rate is matched by the skill with which he moves from pantomimic frenzy to the tuneful romance with the Princess Jasmine of talented Jean Elliott.

Until Jan 21

Olympia, Dublin

Peter Crawley

At first, words seem to tumble out of the darkness, their speaker barely visible under the dancing flashes of camera phones. Too dense and dizzying to take in, they build, echo and swirl, threatening to submerge and overwhelm, until the beat wades in to save us from drowning.

Finally the lights come on and there they are - part hip-hop group, part rock band - trailing the opening rap into the hulking riff of Black Sabbath's Iron Man. So begin the Roots, the most invigorating (and sometimes infuriating) force in live hip-hop.

The Roots have never sat comfortably within the orthodoxy of rap, its emphasis on turntables and samples at odds with the group's consummate musicianship and jazz influences. Unhindered on stage, inventing everything anew, their live performance can be hard to keep pace with: the MC, Black Tongue, pummelling through Game Theory, Star, Long Time and Don't Say Nuthin' with frenetic flow.

Their recent album, Game Theory, may be a tense affair, weaving turbulent beats from political frictions. But while a dark interlude bleeds the menace of All In The Music into the creeping paranoia of Don't Feel Right, for the most part the Roots are here to party. Given their jam band indulgences, though, this generally means abandoning the stage for a seemingly endless succession of instrumental solos.

From bassist Hub's instrument-whacking flamenco workout, to a joint session by endlessly satisfying drummer "?uestlove" and percussionist Knuckles, through to guitarist Kirk Douglas's ludicrously extended solo during an otherwise blameless You Got Me, it was possible to both admire their skills while worrying about getting home in time for Christmas.

Having too much of a good thing is a rare complaint, and even with the delirious excesses of an encore as random as a malfunctioning jukebox (covering everyone from the Police to Michael Jackson, Justin Timberlake to Salt-N-Peppa) the group are never less than bracingly unpredictable. That, in a genre so tethered to routine, is reason enough to keep going back to the Roots.