DTI! LIFFE! CBI! LME!

Making Money!

Futures! Pork Bellies! Junk bonds! Arbitrage!

Making Money!

White Knights! Poison Pills! Greenmail! Insider Trading!

Making Money!

The play is called Serious Money. “Shameless greed” would be a more accurate two-word synopsis of this acerbic but utterly riotous portrayal of the City – London’s financial hub – in the late eighties. As with other contemporary works about unadulterated capitalism, be it non-fiction accounts such as Barbarians at the Gate and Liars’ Poker or fictive works such as Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities and Oliver Stone’s Wall Street, Caryl Churchill’s play takes the audience right into the belly of the beast where they are confronted full-on with the roaring, ruthless minions of Mammon.

Loosely structured around two intertwined plot lines regarding, firstly, the hostile takeover of a traditional British manufacturing firm, symbolically called Albion, and, secondly, the investigation into the apparent suicide of a shady deal-maker, the play’s real preoccupation is with assaulting the audience with the fizz and frenzy of high finance, the amoral ambition of the financial markets’ inhabitants, and how this great serpent has coiled itself right around the planet and is now squeezing the life out of the many for the unappeasable enrichment of the few. Mines close in Peru, factories shut in England, and champagne corks pop in London and New York.

Equally, the audience is confronted here with a sense of how the more things change, the more they stay the same. In this sense, a new generation of uncouth barrow boys may be wresting power away from the well-educated toffs who have run the City to date. However, any vague sense that the financial markets are being socialised for the good of all is readily dispelled by just how brutal these snarling, hard-living alpha-males are in their gluttonous pursuit of money. Equally, recalling Rudyard Kipling’s warning about the female of the species, a group of equally ferocious women are now making their mark in the face of scarcely disguised chauvinism.

This production of the play from the Rough Magic Theatre Company is set in a large, open, and darkly lit space, overlooked by a balcony office. Designer Alyson Cummins then contrasts the onstage pecuniary shenanigans with a sterile and unremarkable backdrop of tiny grey office cubicles with wall-mounted telephones and retro-looking computer screens spewing out radiation green lines of data. Indeed, such is the design’s inconspicuous appearance that it effectively brings to mind Bob Dylan’s line about how some will rob you with a six-gun and some with a fountain pen.

Making full use of this generous space then, the 15-strong cast, under the direction of Aoife Spillane-Hinks, provides an exhilarating two hours of up-tempo drama, with overlapping dialogue, breathless interchanges between scenes, and frequent impressive explosions into the tumultuous and indecipherable hives of activity that are financial trading floors. Mostly speaking in (occasionally grating) rhyming couplets, the cast deliver the rather cumbersome and terminology-heavy script with a great deal of conviction. Admittedly, the vocal projection does suffer on occasion from the hectic swirl of it all. However, the overall energy and cohesion that the actors – most notably the central trio of Hugh Malone, Aonghus Og McAnally, and Shawn Sturnick – bring to this highly dynamic performance is really commendable. Equally, credit has to be given to choreographer Donncha O’Dea, especially when it comes to the hugely entertaining Bollywood-style conclusions to each half of the play.

Yes, for anyone with even a passing interest in economics and social justice, there may not be anything terribly new or revelatory in Ms. Churchill’s work (first performed in 1987). Equally, a modern day audience does not need to be told about how precarious a position the world can be put in if the reckless pursuit of money on this scale is permitted to continue unfettered. At the same time, there is that perennial sense of weary realisation here that those who do not learn from history are doomed to make the same mistakes. Indeed, when the audiences of a decade or two hence watch plays from this era will they still be finding contemporary resonance in them? After all, as so memorably celebrated in the play, stand by for five more years of Tory rule in the United Kingdom!

In all, though, this is a sterling effort from one of Ireland’s best theatre companies. Pun intended.

A superficial understanding of contemporary American attitudes would suggest that having a French wife and an abundance of political songs questioning the country’s involvement in places like Iraq and Afghanistan is not likely to make John Vanderslice a terribly popular performer in wide swathes of the USA. Even if this were true, though, one could see how his boyish looks, calm assertiveness, and disarming friendliness might yet win him an encore or two.

Not that John is terribly into such rituals, preferring to carry on playing last night until he hit curfew. Indeed, promoting his new album is apparently not high on his list of priorities either, with only three songs from Romanian Names featuring on the occasionally spontaneous set list, which instead drew eclectically from his prolific output since going solo a decade ago. In a way, this came as a disappointment, as I had really been looking forward to hearing numbers such as Tremble and Tear, Fetal Horses, and D.I.A.L.O. However, with a promise to keep up his annual visits to Ireland, hopefully the chance to hear them will come soon again.

Instead, the focus was mostly on those political songs, including Tablespoon of Codeine, Trance Manual, Heated Pool and Bar, and The Minaret. For the most part, it was a decidedly mellow, laid-back affair, which was, of course, pleasant and quietly appreciable, if also a little one-paced. Indeed, a degree of urgency only got introduced relatively late on with Up Above the Sea. Here, John’s talented keyboardist Ian Bjornstad came into his own with some impressive polyrhythmic playing on a Moog and Wurlitzer respectively. Equally showing off some dexterity, then, was percussionist David Douglas, who also managed to play one-handed on another Moog upon occasion.

For the final few songs, John asked for a space to be cleared in the middle of the reasonable-sized but admittedly seated crowd and the three musicians brought their show down onto the floor. Insisting that everyone gather around them in a full circle, they then played lively versions of the likes of Keep the Dream Alive and Nikki Oh Nikki unplugged on acoustic guitar, snare drum, and concertina respectively – a fitting conclusion to an intimate show.

It is missing at least one song, but here is a reasonable stab at last night’s set list:

* Too Much Time

* Sunken Union Boats

* Tablespoon of Codeine

* Angela

* Trance Manual

* Lucifer Rising

* The Tower

* Heated Pool and Bar

* Oblivion

* Underneath the Leaves

* Up Above the Sea

* The Minaret

* Pale Horse

* Keep the Dream Alive

* Time to Go

* Nikki Oh Nikki

Opening with a typically lengthy version of Pass the Hatchet, I Think I’m Goodkind, a capacity Dublin audience is given its first reminder in many years of what Ira Kaplan’s idiosyncratic style of guitar playing is like. Specifically, he folds himself almost rag-doll like over the instrument as he gets it to emit a variety of screeches and wails. Alongside him, then, James McNew stands totem-pole like in place, as he repeatedly strums out the same basic but entrancing bass chords.

The band then go on to mix it up for a while between material from their new record such as Avalon or Someone Very Similar and Periodically Double or Triple and older numbers such as Stockholm Syndrome and Tears Are In Your Eyes (featuring, of course, Georgia Hubley on lead vocals). The highlight here, though, is probably Mr. Tough, where McNew and Kaplan share the falsetto duties. On the whole, it is good, but the healthy suspicion remains that there is much better yet to come!

The show then moves on to its next phase, which is a three-song set of acoustic numbers and includes an admittedly lightweight sounding version of Tom Courtenay. It is probably not quite what the audience has come for either.

However, there is no need for any anxiety, as the following thirty minutes see the band darken the stage, put the head down, and relentlessly let rip with their overwhelming flow of guitar-fuelled indie pop. At some stage, Kaplan looks like he is trying to frenetically paddle a canoe upstream with his instrument. Included in the mix here are a firm audience favourite in Autumn Sweater, as well as the brilliant new More Stars Then There Are In Heaven. On the whole, the experience could be fittingly called the “Yolacaust”. It comes as little surprise then when the band walks off to rapturous applause at the end of it.

Arriving back out for the encores then, Ira Kaplan appears to take a request from the audience – “because you said please!” – and the band play Little Honda, before continuing to stoke the fires with the bouncing audience-participation number You Can Have It All. They then opt to conclude with the quieter Our Way to Fall before leaving the stage again. However, the crowd is having none of it and whistle, cheer, and clap for a good five minutes before the band re-emerge once more. This time they opt for a couple of their cover songs from Fakebook, with The Scene is Now’s Yellow Sarong and NRBQ’s What Can I Say.

Two hours in all. It was not close to enough.

Music @ Videos

Canadian singer-songwriter Jenn Grant has been on my radar ever since she released the tuneful Orchestra for the Moon a few years ago, sandwiched by similar solo offerings from compatriot Feist. Jenn has since followed that album up with a new one called Echoes, from which this rather excellent song below is taken.

You can also find new music below from Brakes, Loch Lomond, No Age, and The Swell Season respectively! Yep, I spoil you.

Have a great weekend, mateys!

Jenn Grant – You’ll Go Far

oooOOooo

Brakes – Worry About It Later

ooOOOooo

Loch Lomond – Night Bats

oooOOOooo

No Age – Losing Feeling

oooOOOooo

The Swell Season – Low Rising

In some ways, this film is a victory for style over substance. A quintessential coming-of-age drama where a smart, pretty, and articulate schoolgirl becomes romantically involved with an older man, An Education also looks to capture London in the swinging sixties. as well as that sense of a generational change in values and outlooks.

More precisely, Jenny (Carey Mulligan) is sixteen years old, living with her parents in the pleasant but dull suburbs of Twickenham, and entirely focused on gaining a place in Oxford University, where she hopes to read English. Jenny also has a fine cultural palette, with a particular appreciation for all things French. However, it is her Audrey Hepburn-type looks that attract the charming and wealthy David (Peter Sarsgaard) to her in the first place.

It does not take long then for Jenny to become besotted by his interest in her and, after he as won over her parents with a cocktail of half-truths, David gives her a taste for all of the social possibilities that drab suburban life has denied her thus far. This leads Jenny down a path where she is confronted by a choice between the possibilities of a life of easy fulfilment and having to graft away for years to come for rewards that she is becoming increasingly disillusioned about.

Danish director Lone Scherfig delights in concentrating, though, on Mulligan’s enchanting smile, bright eyes, and fine cheekbones. Lighting up each scene the she is in, Mulligan equally imbues her role with a natural, captivating and precocious naivety that is only let down by having to utter some rather contrived dialogue at times. Already signed up for a leading role in Oliver Stone’s follow-up to Wall Street, as well as a Jim Sheridan movie, there is little doubt that a star has been born in this film.

Alongside her, Sarsgaard might be a mite concerned, though, that between his roles here and in Orphan, he is being typecast as a character who ends up having inappropriate relationships with minors. This is an intentionally flip comment in keeping with the “jolly japes” nature of David’s liaisons with Jenny over the film’s first two acts. Indeed, the fact that two decidedly creepy bedroom scenes actually provoked a good deal of audience laughter helps to substantiate this observation.

On the other hand, while some of his gestures were cloyingly cheesy, Sarsgaard does carry off the role of a silver-tongued rogue in credible fashion. That said, the hints at a more perverse and insecure personality underneath fail, in the end, to be better explored in Nick Hornby’s screen adaptation of an autobiographical essay by British journalist Lynn Barber.

What is well conveyed though is that sense of a changing times. Near the end, Jenny’s father Jack (a jowly Alfred Molina) admits that he has lived his whole life in fear. Despite his pompous and oftentimes ridiculous personality, not to mention his single-minded focus on Jenny’s education, Jack’s actions are always well-meaning in terms of wanting to do what is best for his daughter. The problem is that his frame of reference for life has become entirely outmoded and Jenny constantly desires more than what he feels is appropriate to offer.

Holding them together, then, is Jenny’s wistful and occasionally surprising mother (Cara Seymour). She, along with Jenny’s English teacher (a very repressed-looking Olivia Williams), does more than enough to suggest that this period of social change was as much evolution as it was revolution.

Indeed, for all of its flaws, this drama does have a real allure to it, mostly inspired by Mulligan’s commanding central performance. However, the humorous escapades, the knowledge that all cannot be right with David, and the tension as to how it will all resolve itself give good additional weight to the film, even if the final third is something of a disappointment. An interesting companion piece, on the whole, to Andrea Arnold’s equally noteworthy Fish Tank.

Despite its name, this latest offering from the Pixar Animation Studios ends up rolling downhill from a moving and memorable prologue to a limp and predictable epilogue. In between, it tells the tale of Carl Fredricksen (voiced by Ed Asner), a lonely old curmudgeon who decides to fulfil a sentimental childhood dream by travelling to South America. The catch here being that his choice of transport is to make his house airborne through the use of hundreds of Skittles-like balloons. Unbeknownst to Carl, though, is the fact that he has an accidental stowaway onboard in the form of a chubby boy scout called Russell (voiced by Jordan Nagai). What follows next are their adventures together and room aplenty for some personal growth, don’t you know.

Having been presented with Carl’s life in an initial series of short but entirely effective silent scenes, the audience definitely empathises with the pain that he is feeling from now being alone and feeling isolated in a relentlessly changing world. Moreover, the fact that he ends up having an odd-couple relationship with Russell, which gives him a fresh perspective on life, does have echoes to it of Clint Eastwood’s impressive depiction of the same theme in Gran Torino. Indeed, on that note, there are also hints of inspiration from other films to be found here – be it from Apocalypse Now to Star Wars or from Indiana Jones to Police Academy. Even several of the Looney Tunes cartoons get a look in!

Initially, Up is a real pleasure to watch. Carl’s character is sympathetically drawn in that first series of scenes, the animation is engaging, and for a few wonderful moments when his house tears itself away from its foundations and sails past people going about their daily lives, you delight at what writer-directors Pete Docter and Bob Peterson respectively are looking to accomplish with this film. After all, here is this unlikely hero throwing off his despair and worry, seizing the moment in such an innovative and unapologetic manner, and thus escaping the concrete jungle that had been threatening to engulf him and reduce him to a mere shrivelled shell of a being. Charles Kane had everything, yet pined for “Rosebud”. Carl Fredricksen decides that he is to have no such regrets.

Perhaps, though, these thoughts are too fantastical and gravity, in the end, must win. For as surely as the helium is leaking out of the balloons attached to Carl’s house, the fate of Icarus comes to mind as a disappointing Sesame Street-style second act sets up a familiar-looking all-action final one. Younger viewers may disagree with such an assessment, especially as more kid-friendly characters do get introduced at this stage. However, despite remaining a warm and reasonably engaging work, the nagging feeling remains that the film’s zenith has long since been passed by then.

Glorious to look at, but a rather hackneyed plot after some initial magic.

With an inheritance of £25,000 burning a hole in his pocket and eschewing the sensible uses that such as a windfall can be put to, first-time director Peter Strickland jetted off to Budapest to prepare work on a self-financed Hungarian-language film set in Transylvania. The fact that he only spoke a little of the language was not seen as an impediment. Rather, the resulting film was to bear an uncanny resemblance to many preceding moralistic dramas from that part of the world.

The story begins with a woman (Hilda Peter in the titular role) being thrown out of her home in a remote part of Romania. Rather than get mad, she decides to get even with the cause of her predicament and sets off cross-country on a horse-drawn cart, with only her young son (Norbert Tanko) for company. Strickland foreshadows how events are going to unfold, though, with a prologue that shows men purporting to be the police knocking on doors in the dead of night in search of Katalin. However, the full story only becomes apparent as the film progresses, with the result being a cautionary tale of how an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.

What gives this somewhat stilted film its edge, though, is how it is capable of navigating a course through a tale of female suffering and vengeance, rooted firmly in Nature, and possessive of clear Biblical overtones, without plunging into the abyss of absurdity that Antichrist became. Indeed, given the limited budget, hugely effective use is made out of an unnerving electronic score from Geoff Cox and Steven Stapleton. It sounds like the distorted screams of souls being tormented in Hell.

The camerawork is also quite impressive. In some shots, the characters are rendered tiny by the world around them. In others, the shots are so close-up that the audience needs to rely on aural clues to follow what is taking place. In a different scene then, a dance at a bonfire becomes a red and blurry haze, suggestive of drunken debauchery.

On the whole, the world that is portrayed here by Strickland makes the sunniest of glades and the quaintest of rural backdrops seem dark and brooding places. Modern society seems a very distant concept, as each incident spirals down into another terrible one. To answer a recurring question in the film, no one does get away with it. The ending here merely seems to be the trigger point for another terrible sequence of events.

It was inevitable really. Some band was always going to take the best qualities of several other successful alternative bands (heck, they even nicked Andrew Bird’s whistling!) and turn these combined attributes into something so layered, nuanced, and, quite frankly, overwhelming that you repeatedly felt the need to rub your eyes to check if you were definitely still awake. Indeed, if ever there was a band to go see twice in quick succession, it is Grizzly Bear on this tour. Simply put, it is just not possible to take it all in from a single performance.

For example, it is a decadent luxury to be able to describe last night’s fine opening song of Southern Point as a pleasant way to warm proceedings up with, as you watched how the band went about putting the constituent parts of the song together. However, when they really got going with the harmonies on Cheerleader, the dry observations stopped and the serious aural appreciation took over. A massively pumped up version of Lullabye may have then threatened to spill over into rambunctious excess, with Chris Taylor manfully alternating between clarinet and flute in the middle of some pounding drums and shuddering guitar chords. However, there was to be no masking the irony contained in the sing-song stiff-upper-lip refrain of “chin up, cheer up” either. They then went and absolutely nailed it with a surprisingly strong version of Little Brother.

Indeed, as suggested by the opening four songs alone, the band drew virtually all of the main set from their two most recent albums of Yellow House and Veckatimest respectively, with just a couple from their Friend EP also getting a look in. In a way, this was a shame, as I would have loved to have heard how they would now arrange the likes of Deep Sea Diver or Fix It from their debut album. However, these are the trials and tribulations of being a musical glutton!

Inevitably, there was great crowd acclaim for the opening bars of Two Weeks and it did sound pretty special. However, I liked how they followed it up with the echoing loneliness of Colorado, with Ed Droste doing a fine job on vocals on this pleasing misfit of a song in terms of their current canon. Indeed, his range throughout was quite impressive, with an ability to suddenly draw upon a soaring falsetto that was really quite something. Equally, Taylor’s backing vocals at times were almost unearthly, in keeping, no doubt, with his cherub-like looks! Come to think of it, at one stage, Taylor did also apologise for a swear word slipping from his lips when thanking the crowd. That said, he probably just picked it up from overhearing it in every second conversation since arriving in Dublin!

The stage set up was a busy one, with around fifteen musical instruments and an old-fashioned radio (used to add some static to the mix on Deep Blue Sea) vying for attention with a lighting arrangement that looked more like a set from the Abbey Theatre than a stage intended for a rock show. Namely, there were dozens of light bulbs encased in glass jars and suspended at differing lengths from the branches of some tree-like frames. It created a fairy-tale ambience that was then made more special by each performer being bathed in a different fluorescent colour through the use of ground-mounted lights.

Later in the set, the band went up notch after notch, with fine renditions of Ready, Able and I Live With You giving way to the mesmerizing mournfulness of Foreground, before the show really built to a crescendo with While You Wait for the Others and On a Neck, On a Spit. As noted at the beginning, it all felt a bit overwhelming. Perhaps this is why they used their cover of The Crystals‘ He Hit Me as a solitary encore to bring things down to a slightly more sedate level. The buzz in the crowd on the way to the exit was still trademark Vicar Street though. There just keeps on being “nights like these” in the venue.

A brilliant band; a superlative show.

Here is the set list as I remember it:

1. Southern Point

2. Cheerleader

3. Lullabye

4. Little Brother

5. Knife

6. Fine for Now

7. Two Weeks

8. Colorado

9. Deep Blue Sea

10. Ready, Able

11. I Live with You

12. Foreground

13. While You Wait for the Others

14. On a Neck, On a Spit

___________________

15. He Hit Me (And It Felt Like a Kiss) (The Crystals cover)

Another show in Ireland, another variation on how she goes about her craft. It would be a short list, in any event, but an ability to reinterpret her own music would definitely not be getting included as one of St. Vincent’s weaknesses. Performing solo last night, she compensated for the lack of a saxophone on Actor Out of Work and Marrow respectively by vocally improvising on the former and by replicating the necessary sounds with her guitar on the latter. Neither may be as exhilarating as what the real thing sounded like during the summer, but this is an unfair comparison in the circumstances.

Beyond this, Marry Me now sees the cheesy and slightly demented lyrics performed in a gorgeously rich manner, whilst the later harmonies on The Party also proved to be quite beautiful. Even then, there was still plenty of room in between for a fuzzy electric blues version of The Beatles‘ Dig a Pony that easily blows the original out of the water, whilst the earlier rendition of Jesus Saves, I Spend sounded like two completely different songs in one.

Sooner or later, I am going to stop saying this, but it has been a real pleasure watching this artist emerge over the last few years. Last night, both her assured performance and her ability to draw an enormous early-doors crowd in indicate that the trajectory is still firmly pointed upwards. That said, enough of the teasing, when are we next going to get a proper headline performance from St. Vincent in Dublin please?

Here is the set list as I remember it:

1. Actor Out of Work

2. Jesus Saves, I Spend

3. Just the Same But Brand New

4. Marry Me

5. Dig a Pony (The Beatles cover)

6. The Party

7. Save Me from What I Want

8. Marrow

She Hangs Brightly was probably ten years old before I started listening to the dreamy balladry of Mazzy Star. By then, lead vocalist Hope Sandoval had moved onto a new-but-similar project in terms of Irish-American band Hope Sandoval & The Warm Inventions, and a fine new album called Bavarian Fruit Bread. However, it would be the best part of another decade later before there would be a follow-up to this debut offering in this year’s Through the Devil Softly. Indeed, one could say that the band is as languorous in the recording studio as it is in terms of how it sounds!

Performing to a near-capacity seated audience in Vicar Street last night, the set up brought to mind another melancholic band in Tindersticks, who performed a similar looking show in the venue a year ago. Here, the lighting was kept to a minimum, with the three accompanying guitarists mere silhouettes, for the most part, whilst Sandoval’s white skirt made her a little easier to spot centre-stage. Colm Ó Cíosóig, at least, was lit up by the screen behind his drum kit, as it hypnotically showed recurring images such as dancers, flames, and various abstract objects. The overall effect of this was to lull the audience into a very quiet and remote place in their minds, as they let Sandoval’s husky, soothing, and unvarying voice wash over them.

Highlights in the ninety(-ish) minute set included Charlotte, Blue Bird, and, inevitably, Suzanne. However, it did take until the final song of the main set for the band to cut loose from their mesmerizing guitar drones. Here, Ó Cíosóig dispensed with the wrapped mallets and gave the snare drums a proper workout on For the Rest of Your Life, with the rest of the band following suit. After a slightly pregnant pause, then, where the audience rallied twice to get them back out on stage, before fading again, the band finally re-emerged to perform the most accessible song on their new album in Satellite, before closing the show out with Feeling of Gaze from their first record.

Apart from informing the audience of how it was Ó Cíosóig’s birthday (followed by a lukewarm audience-rendition of you-know-what), it is doubtful that Sandoval spoke more than a half-dozen words following her initial greeting. Equally, she frequently turned to watch the visuals during the instrumental portions of songs and left the stage so promptly at the end that the audience had barely got their shoulder joints working to give her performance some deserved final applause. In light of this, one might even argue that the comparisons to Cat Power actually extend beyond certain similarities in vocal style! Of course, though, these matters are merely the froth on top. The substance of the show made for a perfectly fine evening’s entertainment… just do not go operating any heavy machinery straight away afterward!