He’s a well-regarded classical percussionist. This is his other job

PERFORMANCE ART
Ryosuke Kiyasu | Snare Drum Solo ★★★★★
The Tote, July 30

A spotlight turns on a lone snare drum, sitting on a large plastic folding table on the stage at the back of the Tote. There’s a tight-wound energy in the packed room. A few stray, but loud, cheers emerge.

Ryosuke Kiyasu is a well-regarded classical percussionist, but this is his other job. He starts playing the snare with brushes, rolling, then sliding across the drum, beyond cohesive rhythm. He’s six-foot tall, black t-shirt, long black hair down to his elbows. He’s playing that damn snare with everything accumulated in his body, hair flailing wildly. The crowd howls.

In support of Kiyasu, tonight’s line-up at the Tote pushes sonic pleasure to it acceptable limits, then a bit further.

When I walk in, artist Cher Tan’s noise act Temporary Autonomous Zone sounds like she’s using a circuit-bent synthesizer to power wash a concrete wall. A video of the Windows 95 maze screensaver is projected onto a bedsheet behind her, in frantic fast-forward.

Kiyasu’s act is more about dynamics, and playing the room. I’ve seen plenty of Kiyasu shows online, with crowds variously reverent, silent and contemplative. This is art, and you look at it and formulate a response as soberly as possible.

The Tote crowd could never. The Tote crowd bays for more like playing the snare is a blood sport. After 10 minutes he trades brushes for sticks and all hell breaks loose.

He’s hitting rims, picking up the drum. When he starts chucking his body around, the phone cameras come out like they’re on springs. Kiyasu’s performance moulds to the audience’s.

He holds his face to the drum and yells, which comes out as an electronic snarl via contact microphone. Yells from the crowd. He picks the whole table up. Screams. Then the table is upturned on top of him, and he’s bashing the sticks on its plastic edge, and all I can see are his boots, flailing.

He’s back of stage now, drumming on his thighs, and it’s nearly inaudible. The audience’s howls fill the silence. I’m not sure where the drum is. He’s humping the table. A few men to my left start jumping. Jumping around and screaming.

I think he breaks the sticks then, but I can’t be sure, but he definitely breaks the table, before throwing himself at the brick wall and leaving the stage. Wild cries for an encore are rare for performance artists, but that’s what happens. He returns, pumping his fist at the crowd.

There’s a wild power in the room. The vibes are ecstatic. We’ve witnessed something that was dirty, primal, joyful and absurd. And it’s only Thursday.
Reviewed by Will Cox

THEATRE
Funeral Flowers ★★★★
Red Stitch Actors’ Theatre, until August 23

Angelique is a North Londoner student pursuing floristry, as ensconced in her beautiful makeshift world of bright colours and embedded meanings as she is fixated on all the things a 17-year-old fixates on: boys, clothes, ambition.

But through an accretion of detail, we learn that neither of Angelique’s parents are present, or have been for a while. She’s led an itinerant life, culminating in a lack of childhood memorabilia and a dearth of friends. And as she rhapsodises about the symbolism of lilies that conjure a return to innocence and peace for the recently bereaved, we bear witness to her teetering on her own precipice, forever demarcated by a single fateful night that’ll be the final rupture of a complicated childhood.

If this story has a specificity to it, it’s because playwright Emma Dennis Edwards spun it out of the remarkable, real-life story of Tottenham community leader Gina Moffatt. A breakout hit at 2018 Edinburgh Fringe before premiering on London stages, Funeral Flowers makes its way to Australian shores for the first time at Red Stitch.

The success of a 60-minute, one-woman monologue lives and dies by its lead, and Lucy Ansell leaves nothing to wilt in this performance. Clad in a bomber jacket and patterned jeans with barely discernible eyebrows an oblique nod to her youth, Ansell plays Angelique with a disarming combination of bright-eyed guilelessness and steely canniness.

Festooned with grassy sprigs of flowers and littered with items that call to mind Angelique’s divergent reality – a childlike telephone sits astride an ominous bottle of alcohol – Bianca Pardo’s set of stairs and a slide is a juxtaposition of concrete and colour, of brutality and ingenuity. Kyra Ryan’s masterful swatches of lighting illuminate Angelique’s state of mind – irradiating her, shrouding her and spotlighting her in turn.

Under Candy Bowers’ direction, the pleasing languor of the show’s first half has Ansell make full use of the set – leaping from step to step, spreading herself across, holding herself aloft from bars in flights of youthful vigour.

But when a sinister event splices the show in two, the steel drums of Christian Biko’s sound design morph from mellifluence to menace and Angelique’s splintered existence is externalised by frequent flashes to black.

Ansell is a physically commanding, emotionally astute, incredibly tactile performer. Your eyes are perennially trained on the subtle shifts of her micro-expressions; your ears never strain to discern the modulations in her voice as she inhabits one character after another.

Funeral Flowers may be a one-woman show, but Edwards’ script summons the many forces that have coalesced to let Angelique down.

Her no-good, parasitic boyfriend Micky. A well-meaning mother who’s mostly absent. A grandiose teacher who could’ve done more to stem the emotional fallout of Angelique being targeted in a shocking act of violence. The only one who comes close to being a stalwart is Angelique’s foster mother Sam.

Ansell resurrects all these characters with aplomb, her comportment, posture and tonality effortlessly transformed as she assumes different modalities. So finely tuned is she in her inhabitation of their pathos that tense moments of conflict occasionally give way to laughter from the audience, but Ansell always brings it back with a resounding reminder of how much Angelique has to lose, how little stands between her and complete devastation.
Reviewed by Sonia Nair

THEATRE
Uncle Vanya ★★★★
Melbourne Theatre Company, Arts Centre Melbourne, until August 22

It’s a rare and charming thing to see Uncle Vanya done in period dress, as it is in Anne-Louise Sarks’ latest production for the MTC, on a splendid set that evokes a crumbling provincial estate in the last decade of the 19th century.

Contemporary Chekhovian performance tends to modernise, reframe, relocate. It’s as if we wanted to fire a bullet at the past – an exercise in futility, as Vanya himself discovers twice. Time doesn’t work that way.

Playwright Joanna Murray-Smith believes (rightly) that such modernising is unnecessary in a good Chekhov production. Her Vanya adaptation gives a light textual massage for clarity, to draw out the comedy and update the vernacular.

As you’d expect from Murray-Smith, the sardonic one-liners are mercilessly sharp, and characters slip in words like “f—wit” and “bonking”, while being aware enough to admit that, well, “No one says ‘bonking’ any more.”

Beyond that and the sound design – the Violent Femmes’ Add It Up doesn’t feel appropriate to the general vibe – it’s a faithful, lightly periodised production and an excellent intro to Chekhovian tragicomedy.

Singling out actors for praise in Chekhov may be inevitable but always feels like a betrayal. Star turns can damage the delicate ensemble performance required to portray human contingency and incompleteness, and on that level this production sometimes feels more like a collection of exquisitely rendered individual performances – the human equivalent of the autumn leaves falling in its opening scene – than a true ensemble piece.

There’s still much to admire. Sarks emphasises humiliation as key to whatever self-awareness the characters might avoid or achieve, and the romantic excruciations (everyone is famously in love with the wrong person) are beautifully done.

Philippa Northeast invests the role of Sonya with girlish comedy, throwing herself at Astrov (Fayssal Bazzi) with the full cringe of unrequited infatuation, while the charismatic doctor and environmentalist – whose dashing good looks and vaulting idealism coexist with burnout and radical disillusionment and emotional disconnection – seduces the beautiful young Yelena (Catherine Văn-Davies) with a palpable edge of self-loathing.

Daniel Henshall’s Vanya is a veritable humiliation magnet. It’s a notably unsympathetic portrayal. A beta male to the core, this Vanya is an intensely pathetic figure who projects his own inadequacies onto his brother-in-law, the Professor (played in a nimble, lightly drawn lampoon of intellectual pomposity by Shaun Micallef) even as he makes embarrassing moves on the Professor’s young wife and pours blatant misogyny over everyone, including his would-be suffragist mother (Carolyn Bock).

Vanya might feel like a minor character in his own life, but it’s Chekhov’s actual minor characters who cope best with humiliation. The longsuffering Waffles (Don Bridges) is warmly and affectionately conveyed, as is the stolidity of the pipe-smoking Nanny (Evelyn Krape).

They’re both gloriously unselfconscious – one antidote to humiliation – and such brief moments of freedom are among the production’s most elevating, including a poignant scene where Sonya and Yelena are together, chatting and drinking and playing together like sisters, away from all the fuss the men are causing.

On opening night, some performances didn’t seem entirely bedded down. Henshall appeared to go dry at one point – a metatheatrical humiliation that seemed apposite, in context – but it might be the consistency of dramatic tempo that’s the biggest niggle.

How we experience time, and how we handle futility and ennui, are among Chekhov’s main themes, and the one time I saw the Russians perform Vanya – by the Maly Drama Theatre of St Petersburg in 2007 – they brazenly manipulated the elastic temporal quality of theatre. (That production went for over three hours, dared the audience to be bored, and unfolded as inescapably as if it were being performed inside a black hole.)

It would be churlish – maybe even Vanya-like – to complain that the audience wasn’t bored enough, though, and if it doesn’t quite deliver the epiphany into the human condition you get from the highest level of Chekhovian performance, this production’s desire to entertain is a no less crucial element of the drama.

After all, Chekhov’s characters are always performing to allay such tedium, or at least give it form. And that aspect of being human is as timeless as it gets.
Reviewed by Cameron Woodhead

MUSIC
Silversun Pickups ★★★★
Forum Melbourne, July 28

When Silversun Pickups walk onto the stage at the Forum, they immediately get to work creating an immersive sonic atmosphere. Not a word is spoken until five songs in, when singer Brian Aubert finally addresses the crowd.

“Long time no see,” he says. “Since we were last in Melbourne [in 2012], the world fixed itself.” The audience titters. “Just kidding,” Aubert continues, smiling wryly. “It’s all f—ed up, [but] that’s outside these walls … Whatever ectoplasm and debris you’ve been coated in from our so-called leaders, in here, do your best to shake that shit off the best you can.”

Indeed, the show is a sensory escape. The Los Angeles rock band’s ’90s-inspired soundscapes, incorporating elements of dream-pop, shoegaze and grunge, come to life on stage, accompanied by dappled lights swirling on the venue’s grand facade. From Aubert’s opening vocals on New Wave, the intensity grows, culminating in Nikki Monninger’s undulating bass, Christopher Guanlao’s thrashing drums and Joe Lester’s keys, collectively so heavy that the floor shakes and vibrates.

The band’s seventh album, Tenterhooks, was released in February, but there were a few more released in the years since they last graced our shores. Still, the bulk of the set is drawn from the new record and fan favourites Carnavas (2006) and Swoon (2009), with only a smattering of songs from the intervening years. After 25 years together, the band is a well-oiled machine, most evident on evocative tracks such as Three Seed, which showcase their ability to build an all-encompassing wall of sound.

Aubert’s distinctive voice has lost none of its sheen. Self-effacing, he jokes about how fans showed up to the now-defunct Ding Dong Lounge for the band’s debut Melbourne headliner in 2007 to see “that girl who sings”. “Surprise,” he deadpans, before performing early track Kissing Families.

Monninger and Aubert sing together effortlessly on Panic Switch, but when she takes the lead for Au Revoir Reservoir, her vocals struggle to stay on-key. There’s less power in these moments, but Monninger is magnetic as a bassist, moving with ease and passion as she drives the songs forward.

There are few bells and whistles at a Silversun Pickups show – it’s all about losing yourself in the sound, forgetting that anything and everything else exists for a little while. As Aubert sings on the band’s dreamlike signature track Lazy Eye, which closes the night, “It’s the room, the sun and the sky.”
Reviewed by Giselle Au-Nhien Nguyen

MUSIC
From Winter’s Stillness ★★★★
Australian Chamber Orchestra, Hamer Hall, until July 27

What do you get when you cross the Australian Chamber Orchestra with a jazz trumpeter and a Norwegian trio of female voices specialising in medieval, Nordic folk and contemporary music?

Well, certainly an edgy musical hybrid pushing the boundaries of “classical” programming, delighting intrepid listeners and probably perplexing others. The perplexity was heightened because printed programs only became available at interval, leaving most of the audience adrift in the unusual musical terrain of the first half.

Trumpeter Arve Henriksen’s The Plume of Ash and Acceptance set a reflective mood, contrasted by the indefatigable minimalism of Terry Riley’s Half Wolf Dances Mad in the Moonlight.

Estonian composer Tõnu Kõrvits’ Bells, written for Henriksen and Trio Mediæval (singers Anna Maria Friman, Ditte Marie Bræin and Jorunn Lovise Husan), exerted a mesmeric quality that sat well alongside Academy Award-winning Icelandic composer Hildur Guðnadóttir’s Time and Water (especially written for this tour).

This Little Child, a sad traditional Norwegian song preceded Icelandic band Sigur Ros’ Fljótavik, an ideal vehicle for Hendriksen, whose unique, mellow tone unfurled over the music’s ground bass.

In the second half, movements of Soviet composer Alfred Schnittke’s Concerto Grosso No.1 were interleaved with jazz-infused musings on Nordic chant and folk material.

Schnittke’s iconoclasm is mercifully leavened with a generous sense of humour. Soloists Richard Tognetti and Satu Vänskä met the outrageous technical demands with aplomb, aided by customarily fine support from the rest of the ACO.

Using a cyclorama against which performers were either silhouetted or spotlit, head of lighting Joe Cox created a welcoming, unifying mood across this diverse program.

Trio Mediæval’s limpid vocal quality was a delight throughout and together with flashes of brilliance from Henriksen, this eclectic experience was bound to get listeners talking – presumably as the ACO intended.
Reviewed by Tony Way

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