Arts Reviews

The Circus Of Horrors at the The Helix, Dublin is reviewed by Peter Crawley and Stephen Malkmus at the Village, Dublin is reviewed by Ed Power

The Circus Of Horrors

The Helix, Dublin

The human body is a thing of beauty. So why not observe that thing of beauty, through splayed fingers, as things of considerably less beauty are inserted into it or dangled from it on hooks? Although those of a namby-pamby disposition are advised to take tea elsewhere, for the brave majority this outlandish, sinfully wonderful circus- cum-rock-opera-cum-freak-show is a must-see, a twisted British carnival apparently run by the last true fans of heavy metal.

Between some superfluous devil-saluting stabs at a narrative framework - a Victorian orphan is inducted into hell, as far as one can ascertain - there is astonishing artistry in vivid displays of acrobatics, knife throwing and fire eating, not to mention in the demonstrations of Gary Stretch, a sort of human polo neck.

Critics of contemporary dance are often moved to say that a piece challenges our preconceptions of the body. When Wasp Boy retrieves not one, not two, but four swords from deep inside his gullet, then fans out the blades to show off his intestinal goo, I finally understand what those writers mean.

So luridly involving is the spectacle that your own body may unleash its expressive secrets: unpremeditated whooping and sudden, hysterical flinching, for instance.

Conducted by a ringmaster whose impersonation of Peter Stringfellow fronting Spinal Tap is uncanny - "The only certainty in life is death" - it's all as gory as the bat-biting antics of Black Sabbath's Ozzy Osbourne. Yet beyond the leather trousers and PVC fetish gear, updated circus standards (flying trapeze, contortionist, skeleton clowns) are as reassuringly innocent as the family antics of MTV's Ozzy Osbourne. Often gasp-inducing, sometimes breathtaking - a balletic aerial exorcism lingers long in the memory - the show cackles down at the corpse of family entertainment to find that there's life in the old dear yet.

Ends here today before touring until Sunday  Peter Crawley

Stephen Malkmus

The Village, Dublin

Stephen Malkmus has a problem. Pavement, the off-beam indie rockers he fronted for more than a decade, were widely adored and hugely influential. Some diehard fans have even hailed the group as forefathers of contemporary alt.rock, no less significant than Nirvana or the Pixies. How do you follow that?

By pretending Pavement never happened, of course. With a new band, the Jicks, and two interesting if occasionally overcooked solo albums under his belt, Malkmus gives the impression of an artist determined - perhaps a little desperate - to move on.

Are Pavement so easily renounced? On the evidence of this show, the Jicks's Irish debut, the answer must be a tentative maybe. The occasional cat cry rang out as it became clear that Malkmus - surprisingly dashing with his vintage suit and foppish fringe - would not be dipping into his enviable back catalogue. But the audience was in the main respectful of his fresh direction, essentially a languid retread of Pavement's scuzzy slacker anthems.

The Jicks can be an awesome force. Much of this year's Pig Lib album is the equal of any Pavement record, although its nods towards free jazz and prog rock beg indulgence of the listener.

Live, Malkmus and his three backing players seemed torn between the urge to turn in an exhilarating performance and the desire to get through their set with minimum fuss. Certain songs evidently excite Malkmus more than others. Spotting the favourites was easy, featuring as they did a wildly grimacing Malkmus pulling extravagant rock-god postures and wrenching at his guitar as if attempting to snap it in half. For long passages, though, he slouched through the concert, apparently as unmoved by his current output as many in an increasingly listless crowd.

You could tell Malkmus was itching for the closing straight, because during the encore he went slightly unhinged, throwing out batty covers (including a Fairport Convention number) while singing in an affected falsetto and performing strange little jigs.

Whether he was joshing with the audience or suffering a mild breakdown was hard to decide. Perhaps he was trying to convince us that Pavement's trademark wackiness hasn't completely deserted him. Watching this alt.rock legend cluck and squawk around the stage, you did not doubt the sincerity of the gesture. Ed Power