Irish Times reviewers give their verdict.
Watermark
Pavilion Theatre, Dublin
By Michael Seaver
Merely flicking through the back catalogue of Dance Theatre of Ireland reveals an insightful history of choreographers Robert Connor and Loretta Yurick. They are empathetically drawn to the inexplicable in nature and myth, a force that is traceable to Jerry Pearson's Lunar Parables, which they danced with the Dublin Contemporary Dance Theatre in the 1980s. In more recent years they have included technology in their performances to amplify their diatribes against our increasingly inhuman lives, but Watermark is a return to the elemental.
The work's credo lies in Theodor Schwenk's book, Sensitive Chaos: The Creation of Flowing Forms in Water and Air, and although there are rippling limbs and quivering torsos on view, Watermark is a deeper reading of the book. Like the pre-set video of waves over rock, it is the unpredictability and impermanence of a collection of short movement phrases that resonate most. Fluid in style and in time, they seduce the eye as easily as water, as bodies come together and part in irregular intervals and patterns.
Lighting designer Mark Gallone sweeps dappled circles across the floor. Like a receding tide, the light follows Connor's feet off-stage long after David Yoken's drumming has dimmed, or focuses on a single performer at the end of ensemble dance. Along with the live and simulated water on a back screen, it embalms the action rather than highlights it, so toward the end the seduced eye yearns more variation in the vocabulary.
But then a regular pulse sneaks into Rory Pierce's sound washes and a quintet of random movement phrases gradually coalesces into unison duets and trios, but ultimately lead us to an unsatisfying and rushed ending. But in reflecting Schwenk's belief that forms arise through the interplay of currents and their forces, the motive and movement are well matched.
Ends tomorrow, tours to Town Hall Theatre, Galway (Nov 21); Roscommon Arts Centre (Nov 24); Cork Opera House (Nov 26); Mermaid, Bray (Nov 30)
Billy Idol
The Point, Dublin
By Peter Crawley
This year, two British pop stars released new albums following a 12-year sabbatical from music. One of them, housewife superstar Kate Bush, has just been hailed for producing an eccentric masterpiece. The other, an eternally puckish Billy Idol, has not. Where Bush has unhurriedly engaged with self-regeneration, Idol has been more concerned with self-preservation.
"It's time for some time travel," goes the Idol banter, but his audience is already so intoxicated with nostalgia that the instruction seems redundant.
With his photogenic sneer intact, his black denims, crucifixes and tank tops in place, and his peroxide hair standing to attention, Idol looks like a perfect replica of himself, circa 1981.
His new material also sounds like period recreation; the squealing riffs, pummelling beats, sugary synths, and interminable solos recalling the chunky promise of a nascent MTV culture, a future of glorious day-glo.
Dancing With Myself, Flesh For Fantasy, White Wedding and Eyes Without a Face still carry that nostalgic disco rush of hard rock in soft focus. New songs such as The Body Snatcher or Scream shuffle into that mix, their lyrical allusions to Idol's near-fatal motorcycle crash or his near-fatal drug overdose never as distracting as the near-fatal excess of guitarist Steve Stevens.
Shirt open to the waist, Stevens remembers that the guitar should be played from the crotch at all times. Every member of Idol's group picks up a guitar to ape the pose for an extended jam through Mony Mony. It's like The Darkness never happened.
"This isn't the last you've heard of Billy F**king Idol," he screams, with more poignancy than triumph. But at least Idol - who turns 50 this month - isn't going out quietly. His Rebel Yell rings out undiminished.
Elbow
Vicar St, Dublin
By Kevin Courtney
Five moody Mancunians may be unlikely candidates for creating this year's most pointed anti-Bush anthem, but Elbow are no ordinary moody Mancunians. Not for them the Dadrock riffs, the "roll-wiv-it" lyrics and mouthy attitude; over three deliciously crafted albums, Guy Garvey and his chums have been carefully teasing out their doubts and fears, and wrapping them in fragile, filigreed sound.
The result is a taut, restrained catalogue of songs. So when they let loose with a song such as Leaders of the Free World, it hits with hurricane force.
Garvey is nursing an injured foot, so he needs to sit on a stool. Station Approach sets the scene, a thrumming piano lick laying a path for Garvey's gritty Peter Gabriel vocals. Songs from their new album, Leaders of the Free World, have a fullness that flows, and choruses that grab you even harder than before. Mexican Standoff holds its ground with stomping drums and tightly-cocked guitars. Older songs such as Red, Newborn and Grace Under Pressure are like exiles returning with dignity to resume their places in the pop world.
As Garvey leads the crowd through the redemptive chorus of Forget Myself, it's nice to know that great rock doesn't have to be crass, loud and heartless.
