XL REVIEWS

Yellowman, 'I Am My Own Wife,' Shearwater, Maia String Quartet, 'The Play About the Baby,' 'Vaudeville Vanya'

Monday, July 17, 2006

Dancehall reggae

YELLOWMAN CAPTIVATES ECLECTIC FLAMINGO CROWD

I guarantee you've never seen anyone who looks like Yellowman, a Jamaican albino with unusual facial features. But if there's something jarring about his appearance, it's instantaneously diminished by the raw energy and pure spirit he exudes from the moment he bounds onto stage.

Yellowman approaches his performances like an athlete — he jumps around, he runs in place, he hops from foot to foot, bouncing with the rhythm. And July 13 at Flamingo Cantina, it took him all of 30 seconds to get the near-capacity crowd moving along with him.

The crowd itself was a spectacle to behold. Dreadlock-crowned patrons of all ages and hues roamed the room, mingling with collegiate types and clean-cut Caribbean ex-pats. Kids who were too young to buy a beer rubbed elbows with middle-aged boathouse types who likely had a good three decades of getting "irie" under their belts. "That guy" was even present, pressed to the front of the stage, proudly brandishing a King Yellowman T-shirt and hat. Unfazed by the lack of air conditioning and the lazy fan that refused to turn, they danced with abandon as the air grew heavy and the heat steadily rose.

Backed by an ultra-tight four-piece, Yellowman's rough voice, augmented by soaring three-part harmonies, opened, becoming steadily deeper as the evening went on. For a full hour and 45 minutes, he worked the room like a champ. His manic aerobics paused only occasionally, as he took a moment to swivel his hips and pose like a rock star, to drop kernels of wisdom about AIDS, racism and love or to sing from the heart — arms outstretched, face to the sky. His set list was broad, ranging from his own familiar chants such as "Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt" to Jamaican favorites such as "Pass the Dutchie." He even threw in a dubbed-out version of "Blueberry Hill." By the time the evening came to a close, there was no doubt that Yellowman is, in fact, the "King of the Dancehall." Long may he reign.

—Deborah Sengupta

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Theater

UNEASE IN PLAYING 'MY OWN WIFE'

Before Doug Wright's "I Am My Own Wife" — the one-man play that opened last week at Zachary Scott Theatre — descends into a spineless apology for mental impairment, it is an astute, captivating portrait of an artist as an enthusiastic young man. Similarly, until Glenn Peters abandons his characters' identifying physical markings somewhere in Act Two, the New York-based actor offers a sharp lesson in effortless internalization. Unlike Wright's preening script, Peters' performance undoubtedly will solidify with time.

In 1993, Wright won a grant to write a play about Charlotte von Mahlsdorf, a German transvestite who survived both the Nazis and the Stasi in East Berlin. Armed with a tape recorder and a pocket full of German lessons, Wright traveled between his home in New York City and Berlin, where he interviewed the engaging von Mahlsdorf. The result of these trips is "Wife," a play requiring a single actor to swift-shift among 35 reality-based characters. When it premiered on Broadway, "Wife" won the 2004 Pulitzer Prize and Tony for Best Play and Best Actor (Jefferson Mays).

Zach's "Wife," presented on the cozy Whisenhunt Arena Stage, was a technical marvel — a backhanded compliment, given the performance-driven script. Depending on the circumstances, Jason Amato's lighting (off the hook, as always) pierced or caressed Michael Raiford's simple wooden set. The effect, especially when enriched by Craig Brock's spotless sound design, was like a massage for your senses.

The same cannot be said for the rest of the production — at least not yet. Although he looked fine wearing Charlotte's frumpy black dress, Peters appeared ill-at-ease inside his character's mind. But, as the actor demonstrated during several masterfully subtle transitions, he is capable of great things and worthy of an audience's undivided attention.

("I Am My Own Wife" continues 8 p.m. Thursdays-Saturdays, 2:30 p.m. Sundays through Aug. 27. Whisenhunt Arena Stage, Zachary Scott Theatre Center, 1510 Toomey Road. $28-$37. 476-0541, www.zachscott.com.)

— Tommy O'Malley

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Indie rock

YOU GET SHEARWATER OR YOU DON'T

Unassuming music impresario Phil Waldorf wouldn't stop pacing about Emo's on Friday. As booker of the venue and owner of the label on which headliner Shearwater just released the operatic folk-rock album "Palo Santo," he had a lot of cards on the stage. The question seemingly gnawing on his mind: Can my band transform its stereo-friendly soliloquies into full-on, live rock for this crowd of waning eyes?

Multi-instrumentalist Howard Draper answered Waldorf during the second song, "Red Sea, Black Sea," with a peekaboo maneuver that probably caused Waldorf's heart rate to skyrocket. Upon working his band mates into a lope with staccato keyboard action, Draper from out of nowhere leapt up from his seat and strangled and banged and exalted a tambourine like Kokopelli on fire.

Frontman Jonathan Meiburg, who was rounded out by bassist/ex-wife Kim Burke and percussionist Thor Harris, shared Draper's intensity. His seismic cry amid near silence on "la Dame et la Licorne" blew the roof off. Meanwhile, his eyes remained deadlocked on the empty space above concertgoers' heads. His face contorted to every end-of-the-spectrum emotion. His voice remained intimate and exquisite, like the falsetto of Antony (of Antony and the Johnsons) but not as off-putting and purposefully acrobatic.

Between songs, Meiburg enlightened folks with stories about sharks, the Galapagos Islands and the importance of environmentalism. It was as if Shearwater, the band he co-founded with Will Sheff of Okkervil River but now calls his own, was a front for orating on biology, specifically ornithology, the field in which Meiburg holds a doctoral degree.

Add up the fragile voice, choice of banjo as primary instrument and socially conscious agenda and Meiburg is one brave, polarizing musician indeed. For every person who wasn't hip to Shearwater's grace — "I'm going to . . . kill myself," one girl said during a slow-burner, before bailing — there was another who was glued, in this case the next Leonard Cohen, austere local balladeer Bill Callahan (aka Smog). As for Waldorf, he swiveled his head to and fro, eyes blinking uncontrollably.

— Michael Hoinski

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Classical music

BEAUTIFUL, NOT STUNNING MAIA QUARTET

The first quartet in Beethoven's early set of six-string quartets, published in 1801, holds a marvelous blend of the mature classical style with the nascent early romantic style. The Maia String Quartet hardly could have made a better programming choice to open its recital at the First Unitarian Universalist Church under the auspices of the Austin Chamber Music Festival.

I expected the familiar witty contrasts of soft and loud, very short and connected notes, flashing dialogue and long-arched lyricism. But as this reading unfolded, I heard these sharp edges of the young Beethoven rounded off, with the Maia sticking largely to the middle of the road regarding note length and, especially, volume. Thus the throbbing accompanying figure in the second movement, possibly inspired by the tomb scene in "Romeo and Juliet," competed with the heart-on-sleeve emotion in the melody instead of supporting it from the background.

Dmitri Shostakovich's String Quartet No. 6 is not one of his anguished utterances. It surprises with its playful naiveté and the humor of four movements ending with exactly the same cadence. This music, quite like the Beethoven, benefits from crisp rhythm and clear contrasts, and these contrasts and this rhythm also were blended instead of being heightened.

Brahms' string quartets are particularly challenging because he was determined to make four string instruments sound like an orchestra. The Maia players had excellent control of the notes, but again there was a lack of follow-through, a lack of going all the way with the composer's instructions and requests, a lack of really showing us which part leads and which part follows.

It's too bad. There was nothing blatantly wrong all evening. It all sounded nice. Yet there were only 256 colors when I wanted 16 million.

— David Mead

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Theater

'BABY' HOLDS BACK TOO MUCH

Edward Albee's plays are rife with cruel sexual humor, games that carry barbs and a generally fearful disdain for modern life. "The Play About the Baby" is like a love note to all his favorite themes. But in the Coda Project's new staging under Kate Meehan, all that is sadly muted under Albee's unnatural dialogue and absurd settings.

In "Baby," a Girl and a Boy are recently married parents with everything going for them. They love each other and they adore their baby. Their lives are invaded by a Man and Woman who kidnap their baby, call its very existence into question and savage the young couple's emotions to make them grow up.

As Woman, Lisa Scheps is, as her character says, "a trifle theatrical." And it's in the best possible way. She preens and emotes and launches into histrionic remembrances, and the audience loves her.

The other actors get trapped in the script. Zac Crofford's self-aware banter as the Man seems forced and scripted. And as Boy and Girl, Scott Geier and Maggie Wilhite's sexuality feels neutered instead of naïve. When any of their lines dip into Albee's unnatural vernacular, all three sound acutely conscious of the dialogue. Albee makes the setting awkward, but only Scheps makes her character real enough to cross the line between being just interesting and becoming compelling.

At one point the play calls for Boy and Girl to streak across the stage, prompting Woman to ask, "Did two people just run nakedly giggling behind me?" This production puts them merely in skimpy pajamas. There's an object lesson here: If you're going to do absurd Albee, go all the way.

("The Play About the Baby" continues 8 p.m. Thursdays-Saturdays through Aug. 5. Play Theatre, 1204 Cedar Ave. $8-$10. 468-5546.)

— Joey Seiler

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Theater

NOTHNG HAPPENS IN 'VANYA,' THEN . . .

How many new theater companies have their very first production's opening-night after-party sponsored by Austin staples such as Tito's Homemade Vodka and the Garden Spot Café? And how many get SITI Company member J. Ed Araiza to adapt and direct? Not many, but somehow, St. Idiot Collective did when "Vaudeville Vanya," its take on Anton Chekhov's classic tragicomedy "Uncle Vanya," premiered Thursday at Arts on Real. It seems like a strange choice of opening productions — a play about stagnancy — as the company's public birth. But the Idiots (or Saints?) manage to connect vaudeville to "Vanya," displaying both as a warning against what happens when we don't change.

The original "Uncle Vanya" premiered in 1900, just a decade before vaudeville began its gradual decline, brought on initially by the rise of cinema. But cinema found its first commercial audience in vaudeville halls. "Vaudeville" nods to the irony by depicting the play's last scene in a silent, black-and-white film on a creaky drop-down screen. A great idea, and though the clip worked as a clincher, it should have been drastically shorter. I could've sworn I heard snoring somewhere under the air conditioner.

The AC also covered quieter lines, including a few soft musings in Jeffery Mills' wholehearted performance as Uncle Vanya. Mills' explosive rages and brooding stares anchored the action for others' monologues. Elizabeth Wakehouse as Helena, Adriene Mishler as Sophia and Brent Werzner as Dr. Astroff shared the spotlight with Mills in a tangled love affair doomed with impossible crushes. Adam Sultan's musical composition hit the mark with original songs in true vaudeville style.

Physical comedy popped up as treats tucked between lulls. Perennial star Lee Eddy took the back seat this time as the quiet grandmother, but not without giving one of the play's saving scenes, a classic punching round with Mills. But my favorite scene came after intermission, when the silent yet expressive scene-card changer burst into another role. I won't spoil it, but let's just say there was dancing with teacups upon heads.

Overall, St. Idiot's first promising collaboration aims high, so go prepared to reach with them. It won't be without reward.

("Vaudeville Vanya" continues 8 p.m. today-Saturday. Arts on Real Theatre, 2826 Real St. $10-$25 sliding scale. www.vaudevillevanya.mollyguard.com.)

— Sarah Rigdon