Irish Times writers review concerts by Kings of Leon at the Olympia, Slide at Mother Redcaps and
Kings Of Leon
Olympia Theatre
Being a fresh-faced kid from Tennessee, playing your good-time country rock 'n' roll, then suddenly finding yourself fêted by the music press, flirted with by supermodels, and thrust straight into the cutting edge of modern rock. You would feel a bit like the Beatles, too. Perhaps that's why, when Kings Of Leon take the stage, bass player Jared Followill pulls all his best Paul McCartney moves, drinking in all the adulation with a mischievous grin.
Kings Of Leon have gone from preacher boys to pop icons and they do for country rock what The Darkness have done for hair metal. The success of their début album, Youth And Young Manhood, has also proven 2003's big pop truism: that genre doesn't matter a damn as long as the songs are good. KOL have a few killer tunes tucked into their cracker barrel of cowpunk, and with only an hour's worth of material on hand, they make every tune count. Singer Caleb Followill croaks out the first verses of Red Morning Light, sounding like Ronnie Van Zandt after a night on the bong; his older brother, Nathan, pounds out a galloping beat on the drums, while cousin Matthew whips through a mix of country twang, slide guitar, thrash-punk chords and balls-out soloing.
At first, it seems as if the band is just doing the début album by the book, but it doesn't take long for the rodeo to liven up, and soon the crowd is throwing its proverbial hat in the air. Wasted Time, Holy Roller Novocaine, Wicker Chair and Joe's Head build up a head of steam as the family foursome go out with all guns blazing. It's the Grateful Dead on crack, and though it all sounds a bit redneck-retro, it still swaggers with a certain Wild West cool.
Even the Eagles swoop of California Waiting and the Creedence charge of Happy Alone sound like anthems for a new, cool Confederacy, and by the time the band hits its extended version of Molly's Chambers, moving from slow to runaway steam-train in eight minutes, you are starting to rethink your attitude to Free Bird. Thank God Kings Of Leon don't do polka - that would be really pushing it.
Kevin Courtney
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Slide
Mother Redcap's, Dublin
With their military haircuts (well, on three of the four) and a grá for high-kicking gestures more commonly found in the midst of a rock 'n' roll band, Slide don't quite fit the mould of stalwart traditionalists.
Then again, this is a quartet who aren't afraid to marry self-penned songs of local heroes (Brian Kenny) and crusading clampers (The Boys In Green) with powerhouse tunes cross-fertilised by time and by their own exceedingly fertile imaginations.
Gone are the days when Slide were the boys who wanted to show off all their toys at once. Their sound is startlingly orchestral, and yet gloriously spacious where previously it occasionally suffocated itself through overcrowding. Exuding bonhomie, and fired by fiddler Daire Bracken's unfettered exuberance, Slide slid through a rake of fine sets, their identity tooled finely by drum-tight arrangements. Aogán Lynch's concertina takes a surprising role centre-stage (not always the most comfortable place for that instrument), but amidst the genteel surrounds of Eamon De Barra's flute and keyboards, Bracken's fiddle and guitar and Mick Broderick's bouzouki, it floats free of the pedestrian shackles that can sometimes root it to the ground.
Hearing four men tackle close harmony singing is a rarity and Slide embrace the challenge with gleeful intent. Their handling of the intricacies of Monday Night revealed a weakness for arrangements that owe at least some of their lineage to Planxty, bouzouki and vocals tiptoeing between the air pockets of Bracken's guitar and Lynch's medieval-toned concertina.
An occasional reliance on songs over-burdened by lyrical detail (High Time) fades into the backdrop once the instrumental pieces take flight.
And how they soar; The Flying Pig and The Watchmaker's Set affording them full rein to stretch and bend the notes across a 360-degree arc of their own making.
Head and shoulders above so many of their peers, the wonder is that Slide's public profile doesn't quite match their musicianship - yet.
Siobhán Long
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McGahon, O'Reilly, O'Conor
Hugh Lane Gallery, Dublin
The shortness of the songs in Wolf's Italian Songbook, some of them no more than a single page, makes considerable demands on the performers. The composer has packed a quart into a pint pot and each drop is too precious to be spilt. The second volume opens with the tender Was fur ein Lied (What kind of song shall be sung to you, that would be worthy of you) and Philip O'Reilly (bass) and John O'Conor (piano)
made it sound hauntingly beautiful.
Most of the ironic and humorous songs fell to the lot of Colette McGahon. Probably the most effective pairing of songs came with Nicht langer kann ich singen (No longer can I sing), where O'Reilly wonders aloud whether his serenading has been worthwhile, which is followed immediately by McGahon's Schweig einmal still (Do be quiet!), where she says she'd rather have to listen to a donkey braying. The piano cleverly underlines the message.
The whole collection is full of brilliant touches, though a knowledge of German is needed to appreciate the many felicities in the way the texts have been wedded to the music.
Douglas Sealy
