New Jersey’s Real Estate and Brooklyn’s the Babies played a sold-out show last Wednesday at La Sala Rossa.

Local trio Reversing Falls opened with their tuneful and distorted pop punk, using a  drum machine so good that it took this reviewer about 30 seconds to realize there wasn’t a live drummer on stage.

The new project of members of Vivian Girls and Woods, the Babies easily won over the audience with a set of solid garage rock. The vocal interplay and boy-girl harmonies between Cassie Ramone and Kevin Morby were particularly impressive.

Real Estate sounded great—their guitars were as warm and sunny as on record—but they didn’t turn in a very compelling live performance.  There was little movement on stage, minimal banter, and requesting technical adjustments between most songs killed the flow of the set. The laid back, hazy nature of their music doesn’t exactly lend itself to urgent playing, but it would’ve been nice to see a bit more life. 

aceshowbiz.com

Coriolanus is not an easy movie to watch. Ralph Fiennes’ directorial debut, an adaptation of one of Shakespeare’s lesser-known tragedies, is no popcorn action flick. The plot is complex, the war scenes are more brutal than exhilarating, the dialogue is heavy, and the characters defy empathy. But for those who are willing to endure the onslaught of Coriolanus, the rewards are great.  

Caius Martius Coriolanus (Fiennes) is no hero. Above all, he hates his mortal enemy Aufidius and his own people. He enacts martial law to stave off a food shortage, attacking the neighbouring Volscians, inspired more by revenge than the defence of Rome. When he returns and vies for political office, the Romans reject and banish him.  

Coriolanus is incompatible with his society. All he knows is war. So he does the unthinkable—he teams up with Aufidius and sets his sights on sacking Rome. 

Fiennes enraptures as Caius Martius Coriolanus. He handles scenes of pure rage, chilling egomania, and raw vulnerability with explosive passion. His mother Volumnia (Vanessa Redgrave) is a powerful and obstinate woman who might just be responsible for all of Coriolanus’ problems. She is as ambitious as Lady Macbeth, craves danger, and has an odd, reverse-Oedipal fascination with her son. Volumnia is unique and complex, and Redgrave does her character justice. Coriolanus’ wife Virgilia is naive but steadfast like Penelope, and ever-radiant Jessica Chastain plays her with pathos and charm. Gerard Butler as Aufidius is the least adept at making the iambic pentameter his own, but still brings depth to what could have been a mere stock villain. 

Coriolanus makes storytelling decisions that would be, by any other standard, wrong. Jarring cuts take us from the height of action to mundane suburban scenes. The music is excessively loud during fight scenes, racing like an adrenaline-fuelled heartbeat, and deathly quiet during the most dynamic moments. The staging is ugly—teeming with graffiti, battered buildings, and grime. But the risks pay off. What should be wrong is right. The soundtrack, editing, and art direction shock us out of any semblance of comfort, exposing the meanest sides of war, where children and the elderly are casualties. Wisely, Coriolanus follows Alfred Hitchcock’s advice: to shoot murder scenes like love scenes and love scenes like murder scenes. The episodes between Coriolanus and Virgilia are austere and distanced. In utter contrast, the Roman general and his mortal enemy scratch and claw at each other in suffocating embraces. 

The themes of the original play are relevant in the film’s 21st century setting. Coriolanus’ elitism and conflict with his people are reminiscent of the Occupy movement—but our so-called protagonist is on the side of the dreaded one per cent. He refuses to pander to those he sees as below him, and is exiled for it. The gritty fight scenes evoke recent episodes of police brutality and a kill first, ask questions later policy. Above all, the film reminds us how fine the line is between peace and chaos. 

Coriolanus demands a great deal from its audience, and it presents an unsettling view of modern politics, creating a queasy sense of moral ambiguity. Cinema’s latest Shakespeare adaptation is a movie for people who are okay with unanswered questions. What happens to an uncompromising man when he moves out of a world of absolutes? The first time Coriolanus breaks his convictions he gets banished from his country. And the second time? You’ll have to watch to find out. 

Sam Reynolds / McGill Tribune

My mother, like many, used to stress the importance of good manners. But what happens when yours has none to spare? Well, something like Hay Fever, apparently. Set in the bohemian period of the roaring twenties, the play follows the eccentricities of the Bliss family as they drive their guests and each other to the edge of insanity—and then over it. In the hands of Players’ Theatre, the script is as zany as ever and cringingly sharp. No worries about indecent pleasures; here, the pleasure is in the indecency.  

Looking at the set, a country home immaculately decked to bourgeois tastes, one would never intitally guess the bizarre nature of the Bliss family. This, of course, is soon remedied. Siblings Sorel and Simon Bliss are nothing less than spoiled brats with issues of temperament. Played respectively by Alex Borkowski and Spencer Thompson, the pair’s initial banter eased the audience into the oddities of the upper-class. Borkowski managed to find pleasing dimensions in her role, including the semblance of a restraint that few others in the cast adopted. Thompson largely hit a single tone, although one that is uproarious. 

The two appear to regard housemaid Clara (Norah Paton) as just one of the furnishings, despite Paton’s bird-like posturing having given the character plenty of quirk of her own. She was certainly not missed by the audience, who seemed to find delight in all of her cameos.  

 Soon waltzes in retired actress and boisterous matriarch Judith Bliss (Annie Schreck) who wastes no time in attempting to outdo her two children in outlandishness. Schreck fit the role well, although occasionally stretched the character too far. Her husband, David Bliss (Andrew Cameron), is no less strange, having apparently shirked all parental and spousal responsibility.  

Before long, it is revealed that each of the members of the house have invited a guest for the weekend without telling the others. Of course, instead of attempting to resolve any of the problems that this miscommunication may cause, the Blisses carry on, leaving their unsuspecting invitees to brave the chaotic frenzy that ensues. 

Director Zoë Erwin-Longstaff seems to have found an inscrutable internal calculus to the show; the fluidity and acuity of the pacing makes Hay Fever a peculiar exercise in functional dysfunctionality. The frenzy of one-liners are relayed more often by caricatures than by characters. Should the audience ever get the chance for a breath and some introspection, they’d see that much of the show has been over-acted. I don’t believe this chance ever really comes. The force of the pacing negated the force of logic.  

The velocity of the show also meant that actors were not (could not?) hold for laughs, which was a shame, as the Noël Coward script is very funny, and has some remarkable turns of language. Other bits of comic gold were left unmined when an actor simply rushed on over it. This also meant that the occasional tone shift made for a bewildering experience, while the rest was cardiovascularly-taxing.  

That said, the locomotive force of the production allowed for absolutely zero dull moments. The comic lines that the cast do hit are hit exceedingly well. Darcy Drury gave the most disciplined performance as Sandy, with his presence an anchor of sanity in most scenes. Costuming under Logan Williams was very appropriate, and showed considerable care and thought. 

Altogether, Players’ Theatre’s Hay Fever is not your typical show. Few productions could pull off such absurd levels of energy so successfully. An abundance of laughs is practically guaranteed, but be sure to bring your own defibrillator.  

Players’ Theatre’s production of Hay Fever runs from Jan 25 – 28 on the  third floor SSMU building at 8 p.m.

Common’s The Dreamer/The Believer is not just an album, but also a statement to critics and fans alike in response to 2008’s disappointing and generally dismissed Universal Mind Control. This time around, Common is defiant and triumphant; his sound enhanced by longtime friend and producer No I.D., who produced the entire project. On the single “Sweet,” Common reminds fans of his legacy in hip-hop, boasting “some people say that they be missing creativity/but when it comes to hip-hop, it begins and ends with me.”

The album offers a nostalgic ‘90s-era sound built upon No I.D.’s frequent use of sampling, distorted drums, and heavy synth, and Common’s signature poetry is strongest on “The Dreamer,” “Blue Sky,” and “Windows.” The chemistry between them creates an engaging and entertaining listen. The album shifts from a mosaic of racy street tales on “Raw,” to the hopeful John Legend-assisted balled “The Believer,” to the outstanding “Cloth,” a track written for Common’s ex-wife Erykah Badu. At a concise 12 songs, The Dreamer/The Believer focuses not necessarily on creating something new or unorthodox, but on a strong combination of No I.D.’s celebrated boom-bap with Common’s consistently clever, witty, and occasionally deeply poetic lyrics. It is clear that Common is conscious of the negative response to his previous album, re-inventing himself with a style that pays tribute to rap’s past and current musical palette. Common makes his point early on: “No I.D. said give ‘em that ‘80s cocaine, something raw, something pure, so I stayed in that vein.”

—Nazim Elnur

Sam Reynolds / McGill Tribune

There are stories that are fun, pleasing, and uplifting to the soul and spirit. Then there are others that are dark, brutal, and challenging to watch unfold. And then there’s Sweeney Todd. 

One of Stephen Sondheim’s best known works, Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street follows the titular antihero through a tale of revenge, blood, and star-crossed love. The various dimensions are fleshed out skillfully by the cast and crew of the Arts Undergraduate Theatre Society in a largely faithful rendition that features personal, idiosyncratic twists, combining in a vividly haunting experience. This won’t be quite like any previous Sweeney Todd you may have seen before. 

Fifteen years can be a very long time. For Sweeney Todd, fifteen years saw the loss of his wife to the arsenic bottle and the loss of his daughter to the corrupt judge who orchestrated it all. Having now returned to London, Todd, together with the delightfully amoral Mrs. Lovett, is determined to slice his way to the vengeance that he seeks. 

Benjamin Harris’ Todd was one tormented and torn asunder by his powerful passions. His emphatic characterizations bordered on schizophrenia, moving from sullenness to rage with psychotic fluidity. Songs were strong overall, with “Epiphany” being the apex of Harris’ various emotional surges.  

Zara Jestadt’s Mrs. Lovett featured fantastic physicality, a living proof that dilapidated poise and scruffy grace do not have to be contradictions in terms. This dedication is carried through to musical numbers, where Jestadt’s nuanced vocals made her perhaps the most well-rounded and consistent actor in the production. Full disclosure: “By the Sea” holds a special place in this reviewer’s heart, and Jestadt pulled it off beautifully.

Together, the two showcased lovely interplay on several occasions; “A Little Priest” was one of the show’s highlights as a result, durng which Harris was his most natural. 

Among the strong supporting cast, Judge Turpin (Mike Sornberger) made a truly indelible impression. Possessing an unsurpassed gravitas on stage, centred on his full-bodied vocals, Sornberger skillfully crafted what may be the darkest and most disturbing moment in the production (“Johanna: Mea Culpa”).

As the juxtaposing love story, Antony (Niko Gelfars) and Johanna (Julia Bradshaw) provided  pleasant reveries from the bleak arch-narrative. Gelfars’ amicability and enthusiasm was his greatest strength while Bradshaw was served well by a formidable voice, although struggling to fulfil the non-musical dimensions of her role. 

The set was very much spartan, which paradoxically served to limit the amount of space available to the cast. Signage high above was relied upon to denote locations instead of the set pieces. Make-up suffered from inconsistencies, with Todd’s approaching mask-like density, while the Beggar Woman appeared to have been the cleanest in all of London. Lighting was only effective during the choral interludes, when stark contrasts amplified the onstage intensity. One success was the orchestra, who, under the direction of Sean Mayes, executed Sondheim’s score with mastery.  

Director Phaedra Nowak implemented a few quirks, placing a personal print on the fairly popular tale, even though the moments themselves were to mixed effect. The surprise reveal of Mr. Todd was an ingenious start to the performance, while the later ballet interjection was quaint but felt assuredly out of place. 

Staging in the production appeared underdeveloped, with significant amounts of sedentary moments, although “Kiss Me” and “God, That’s Good!” were choreographed brilliantly.  

The tale of Sweeney Todd is not for the faint of heart, and this is certainly true for AUTS’ rendition. It won’t be the most polished piece you see this year, but in those brief moments where ecstasy and horror become one, it may be the most evocative.  

The Arts Undergraduate Theatre Society’s production of Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street is running at Moyse Hall from January 26th to 28th, 7:30pm.

Two weeks ago, SPIN Magazine announced it would be discontinuing its traditional in-print album reviews in favour of 140-character reviews posted on Twitter (@SPINreviews). SPIN reasons that, thanks to the Internet, listeners don’t depend on professional critics to act as authoritative voices about new releases: all anyone needs to discover new music is a working knowledge of Google. A self-proclaimed “reinvention” of the album review with the goal of reviewing as much music as possible (1500 albums is the stated target), SPIN’s decision raises some legitimate questions about music criticism in a digital age, but is flawed as a solution.

The main problem is that 140 characters are not enough to say anything of value, especially considering that on average a third of the space is spent listing the technical details of the album (artist, title, grade). These microblog reviews may seem novel and exciting, but in condensing the breadth of each album into a mere sentence fragment, our understanding of potentially immense albums must rely on a single critic’s ability to, in essence, say as little as possible.

See if you can tell if the following review is favourable or not without the number grade:  “THE DEVIL’S BLOOD/The Thousandfold Epicentre: Satanic vintage metal skirting nine-minute lines between Öyster and Öyster with cheese.” Is it good or bad? Chances are you won’t know from that sentence alone. Though assigning a grade, numeric or alphabetical, is often frustratingly arbitrary, the fact that the above phrase is equally applicable to a one out of 10 review or a 10 out of 10 review is troublesome. The less that’s said, the less context given, the more power is allocated to the number. At this point, words are just a formality. If the goal of the project is to make music reviews more accessible and relevant, SPIN has already failed. These tweets are meaningless as critiques and  nothing more than an exercise for its writers. (By the way, the grade was a “6.” Who knew?)

SPIN blames the Internet for the decline of music journalism, but music journalists themselves are just as much a part of the problem. One of the complaints often lodged against critics, and rightfully so, is that much of the writing is a self-serving description of the reviewer. The contention is not that subjectivity should be kept out of criticism—the merit of all music is philosophically and fundamentally subjective—but that too often writers attempt to show off their prose at the expense of actually discussing the music in a meaningful and accessible way. Music website Pitchfork Media is notorious for this, where criticism and compliments are often buried under tedious anecdotes and obscure references, but it’s not the only offender: overintellectualized, verbose, and self-serving reviews are endemic among critics. No doubt these types of reviews are appropriate for a select type of music fan, but for those without PhDs in “insert-genre-here” (ie. the majority), impenetrable reviews become frustrating and tiresome. It’s no wonder people tune out.

An appropriate remedy is not to eliminate the overly-educated from holding positions in music criticism, but to shift the standard tone. Critics need to ditch the “holier-than-thou” mentality and realize that a review should be a starting point for conversation, not a sermon. SPIN acknowledges this in its press release, encouraging readers to use the new format as, ” … a jumping-off point to explore your own opinion and fandom.” In practice, however, the majority of the Twitter reviews have lost none of their pompousness. 

Another thing that bears addressing is that SPIN’s new style of reviewing isn’t drastically different than its old one. To quote the press release, “…this new plan also means no more overwrought 80-word blurbs on middling, nobody-cares bands where a grade of “6” or a “7” ultimately translates to ‘Hey, this exists; and it doesn’t totally blow!'” Moving reviews to Twitter doesn’t change the fact that “nobody-cares” bands are still nobody-cares bands, if anything being mentioned in print makes them more legitimate, and a grade of “6” or “7” carries the same air of indifference regardless of where it’s posted. It’s a little shorter, but what’s the point?

In the end, changing mediums won’t stop music critics from being pretentious. What’s most important is the attitude, and it takes more than 140 characters to fix that.

SPINREVIEWS/SpinReviews/5: an interesting but ultimately misguided attempt to reinvent music criticism.—NP&RT

—Nick Petrillo & Ryan Taylor

Vanessa Heins

“Death country” might seem like an awkward pairing of words, but once you’ve heard the music of Elliott BROOD, you’ll understand how perfectly this self-labeled genre can work. Although the label is descriptive of their older work, the band’s newest album, Days Into Years, strays from this categorization. Their third full-length release is a record as rich in narrative as it is in rock n’ roll.

The album was largely inspired by an accidental road trip through the French countryside during the band’s 2007 European tour. In an attempt to avoid highway tolls, the band strayed from main roads only to stumble upon a World War I military cemetery. They had already been interested in Canadian military history, but witnessing this site really hit home.

“It just got us thinking in many ways and really moved us,” lead singer/guitarist Mark Sasso says. The band members were exposed to ex-military soldiers growing up, and they’ve learned a lot from these veterans. 

“I have an uncle who was in World War II. I also had a really good friend whose house we would hang out at to discuss with his grandfather things that went on … he was really open about his experiences. When we went to the cemetery, we saw people’s names that we recognized, and we thought of those lost lives and their families, maybe children. It really resonated with us,” Sasso says. “There are just so many stories there; so many lives that had never got born from that. Our emotions really just took over.”

It’s remarkable that such an emotionally-laden experience was translated into an album, and you can hear the passion that went into their work. Though one might think the heavy subject matter would be paired with a somber sound, as the band themselves anticipated, the album turned out to be louder and more aggressive than previous releases. 

“We’ve evolved as a band, lyrically as well as musically,” Sasso says. “We just kept gravitating towards more instruments and more sound, and I guess it just kind of fit with this album.”

More sound includes the first time addition of electric guitar which gives songs a new, edgier feel. 

“The electric guitar is kind of what brings the album together,” Sasso says. “We used it to create space, and I think it would have been a totally different record without it.”

Despite the war-related lyrical inspiration, Days Into Years is first and foremost a musical project, not a political one. 

“I’m not telling anyone what to do with their life,” says Sasso said. “It’s really more of a personal; [the whole album is] told from different first-person perspectives.”

It’s now been 10 years since the members of Elliott BROOD played their first show, and they’ve accomplished much more than they expected in that time. Their previous album Mountain Meadows was shortlisted for the 2009 Polaris Music Prize, and they were signed to Canadian indie label Paper Bad Records just a few months ago. 

“When we started the band I was 27 … I had a full-time job. I had already gone to university and was working in order to save up money to make records for fun, not really thinking anything would ever happen,” explains Sasso. Here’s hoping for more great things from the men of Elliott BROOD.

Elliott BROOD plays Salle Andre-Mathieu (475 boulevard de l’Avenir, Laval) Friday, Jan. 27 at 8 p.m. Jason Bajada opens. Tickets are $17.50.

The program cover for Opéra de Montréal’s performance of Giuseppe Verdi’s Il Trovatore leaves a lasting impression.  It displays a gaping witch with fiery hair, her expression carrying both a hint of personal pain and menacing madness.  Though the opera does tell the story of a troubadour and his turbulent quest for love in Medieval Spain, this image perfectly encapsulates the subtle drive of the story.

The opening scenes tell the story of a gypsy’s execution following accusations of witchcraft.  In a desperate act of vengeance, Azucena, the gypsy’s daughter, runs off with the king’s baby, whom the gypsy had allegedly cursed. Escaping the clutches of the king and his men, she and the baby disappear for years. 

Like many operas, Verdi’s Il Trovatore is a love story.  Taking place years after the kidnapping, two men, Count Di Luna, the older brother of the kidnapped baby, and the troubadour Manrico, Azucena’s son, vie for the love of Leonora.  It is revealed that not only is the troubadour a supporter of Di Luna’s enemies in a civil war that is raging in Spain, but that the two men’s relationship is indeed more complex.  Was Manrico indeed Azucena’s own son?  Azucena’s presence further obscures the linear romance.  Was this a simple quest for love, or a complex mission for vengeance?

Among Verdi’s most popular operas, Il Trovatore stands out for its lead roles.  Though no Verdi opera is easy to perform, Il Trovatore contains the four highly demanding roles of Count Di Luna, Manrico, Leonora, and Azucena.  Opéra de Montréal and stage director Oriol Tomas did not disappoint.  Led by the superb performances of Japanese Soprano Hiromi Omura as Leonora and Italian mezzo Laura Brioli as Azucena, Opéra de Montréal’s musical performance was stellar. 

I was almost brought to tears at Brioli’s tortured performance of Azucena recounting the sight of her mother burning at the stake.  The calls of “Avenge me!” uttered in the aria still haunt my ears.   Omura was stellar, hitting Leonora’s love-struck high notes with both precision and profound expressivity.

Dongwon Shin’s performance of Manrico successfully captured the troubadour’s hectic loyalties, his love for both Leonora and Azucena, and his mysterious pity for Di Luna.  Gregory Dahl’s Di Luna served as a perfect contrast, illustrating Di Luna’s uncompromising hatred of Manrico. Conductor Francesco Maria Colombo, hailing from Italy, not only kept the complex accompaniment together, but also gave it a touching and animated edge. 

 While the music and its execution were near perfect, aspects of the stage direction were somewhat peculiar.  In the first confrontation between Manrico and Di Luna, the whole scene seemed awkwardly drawn out.  Manrico and Di Luna face each other with swords drawn, their singing interrupted by two histrionically exaggerated sword clashes.  Though fighting choreography is hard to pull off in any opera, it’s best to either perfect it or toss it altogether. 

Another challenge posed by the opera is the stark contrast of each scene, ranging from gardens to inside a convent. Instead of smooth transitions, the curtains closed for each scene change with the length of the pauses on the supertitles, giving people permission to speak between scenes, which in turn broke the dramatic tension and build-up of the opera as a whole.   

However, these are minor qualms.  I attended mainly for the music, and the magical performance of the leads, chorus, and orchestra, amongst the stunning costumes and efficiently simple sets created a marvelous whole.

Opéra de Montréal’s production of Il Trovatore runs on Jan 24, 26, and 28 at 7:30 p.m., Salle Wilfrid-Pelletier, Place des Arts.