Meow Meow’s The Red Shoes at Malthouse; Doja Cat at Rod Laver Arena; Pieces by Lucy Guerin Inc; Daniel Müller-Schott with Konstantin Shamray; Melbourne Symphony Orchestra Ryman Healthcare Spring Gala; Pixies at Festival Hall; Joyce DiDonato at Hamer Hall; Brigid at Dancehouse

Meow Meow does challenge Andersen (Kanen Breen) at one point about the fairytale’s punitive corrective against a girl who simply wanted to dance. Maybe dancing isn’t the problem, but the cure? Maybe we need more art in our lives?

The ambiguities are open to interpretation. Could Red Shoes also be a self-reflexive comment about diva narcissism seeking external validation or the peripatetic career path of artists?

In the movie of The Wizard of Oz, after a series of (mis)adventures, Dorothy’s ruby shoes took her home; in this story they have the opposite effect: they’re a talisman of the dangers of creative ambition, of the neverending desire to prove oneself, even if that aspiration can take you (like Meow Meow’s career) far away from home.

For those hoping or expecting linearity and cohesion, you’d leave bewildered with this rag-tag assortment of song, dance and spectacle but if you’re a fan of cabaret with a twist of the absurd, Meow Meow’s charisma and rich honeyed tones, Breen’s operatic tenor, and the trio of musicians provide theatrical ballast.
Reviewed by Thuy On

MUSIC
Doja Cat | Ma Vie World Tour ★★★
Rod Laver Arena, November 25

Lyrics are king at a Doja Cat show. Whether she’s spitting tracks at breakneck speed or belting out puns like “I give ’em these teeth like Keira Knightley”, it’s all about the words.

So it’s a shame we can’t hear most of them.

As soon as the Californian rapper launches into her ’80s-inspired funk-pop track Cards, it’s clear something isn’t right. Not only does the backing track do most of the work, but every time she switches to airier falsetto notes, she pulls the microphone way back from her mouth, or simply gets the crowd to sing it for her.

This isn’t surprising. Following her Perth show last week, she said she’d be going on vocal rest to “take care of whatever the f— happened to [her] throat”. She also reportedly cut a performance at Melbourne’s Ms Collins nightclub short on Sunday because she was “losing her voice”.

But does this stop her from getting to work? Hell no.

What she lacks in vocal range, she more than makes up for in movement. She literally mops the floor with her body during the aptly named Wet Vagina, sliding her leopard-print leotard across the catwalk stage as if she’s floating through water. Halfway through her R&B pop hit Woman, she holds a solid squat (in heels, no less) for at least 1½ minutes. And she twerks through an entire verse of Paint the Town Red, sending the crowd into rapturous applause.

Brief moments of vocal brilliance demonstrate her ability to preserve her voice for moments that truly count, such as soulful tracks like All Mine and Make it Up.

Prior criticism around the tour’s lack of visuals, structure and outfits are technically warranted – the stage remains unchanged throughout and Doja wears just one costume. But such simplicity keeps all eyes on the so-called queen of rap-pop, whose exaggerated facial expressions offer all the theatrics needed. And when you aren’t looking at Doja, you’re watching her tiger-striped band, many of whom do the robot or roll around on the floor during instrumental interludes.

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For someone who’s known for sending the occasional barb to fans online (remember when she told us to “get a job”?), there sure is a lot of love in the room. The crowd – many of whom are dressed in ’80s workout gear and inflatable cow costumes – carry Doja through each track, particularly Take Me Dancing and Boss Bitch, singing so loudly it practically drowns out the backing tracks.

This clearly tickles Doja, who smiles ear-to-ear each time she holds the mic out. Her commitment to the fans shines brightest when she stops the show to ask the crowd to help get a fan who has fainted to safety.

It may not be her strongest gig, but you know you have a star on your hands when a singer who is losing their voice can still make a packed crowd purr.
Reviewed by Nell Geraets

DANCE
Pieces ★★★
UMAC, Parkville, until November 28

Choreographer Jo Lloyd’s Post Hoc is the standout contribution to this year’s edition of Pieces, the annual Lucy Guerin Inc showcase of short works. It’s a nervy, almost frantic composition, very stark in its arrangement, but with a strange kind of delicacy.

There’s a pleasing sense of return here, since Lloyd also appeared in the inaugural Pieces program 20 years ago. In the decades since, she has emerged as one of her generation’s most prolific, influential and determinedly avant-garde choreographers.

Here she works with two recent VCA graduates, Flynn Dakis and Jesper Harrison, who appear small and exposed on the vast UMAC stage. Dressed in bizarre skimpy underwear – one buttock hanging free – they skitter across the space like paper scraps.

They periodically force themselves together, a brief shove-and-grapple that sends them spiralling to the back of the stage. Duane Morrison’s hectic sound design – full of explosions and muttered curses – creates a sense of impending disaster.

The title means “after the fact”, and you can imagine the two dancers scurrying through the remnants of Lloyd’s earlier works, quoting stray forms and phrases, before collapsing together in a heap, as if in imitation of all that gets left behind.

Two other works complete the program.

The first, Siobhan McKenna’s Hush, neatly demonstrates how not-quite-linguistic vocalisations – sighs, hums, gasps and other small breathy noises – operate as meaningful utterances, conveying attitude and affect without words.

These sounds are bound to physical gestures, which McKenna uses as material for a well-shaped – if not terribly interesting – movement score. McKenna is an accomplished choreographer, but in this piece, I think she might have pushed further into the ambiguities and occasional failures of these non-words.

The other work, Lip by Jenni Large, is memorable for its costuming, if nothing else. Large herself appears in a scarlet cap-a-pie outfit designed by Jarred Dewey, with suggestive references to Atsuko Kudo, Martin Margiela and those unsettling fantasy figures associated with Eiko Ishioka.

It’s a strong statement of aesthetic preferences – part cosplay, part fetishwear – but as a performance, it feels underdone, particularly in its attempt to fold composer Anna Whitaker into the action.

The program notes frame the work as a study of revenge cycles, which is plausible: Large is like a spirit of blind red fury, a demon that takes possession of Whitaker. Yet the gradual stripping back of the costume to reveal the real person beneath opens more questions than the piece ultimately resolves.
Reviewed by Andrew Fuhrmann

MUSIC
Daniel Müller-Schott with Konstantin Shamray ★★★★★
Melbourne Recital Centre, November 25

German cellist Daniel Müller-Schott has returned to Melbourne, filling Elisabeth Murdoch Hall with the glorious resonance and many-splendoured lyricism of his 1727 “Ex Shapiro” Matteo Goffriller cello.

Noting his instrument is almost exactly contemporaneous with Bach’s Cello Suite No. 3 in C major, BWV 1009, Müller-Schott brought an expansive, larger-than-life feeling to this classic.

Like the rest of the suite, the Prelude was flexible yet rhythmic, powered by artistic and technical assurance. Other movements were beautifully characterised, with especially telling contrasts between the sprightly Courante and the intense yet subtly coloured Sarabande, while the well-known Bourée and the rustic Gigue were buoyed by joyous rhythmic energy.

Together with Russian-born, Australian-based pianist Konstantin Shamray, Müller-Schott offered great insights into Shostakovich’s Cello Sonata in D minor, Op. 40. Once again proving himself to be an extraordinary colourist, Müller-Schott gave the opening two themes a life of their own, with exchanges between instruments deftly handled.

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At the centre of the work, the third-movement Largo became a soul-searing expression of heartache. This vividly etched lament was surrounded by remarkable vigour, both in the second-movement Allegro and in the impish finale. Throughout, the artists harnessed Shostakovich’s formidable array of technical demands to memorable musical ends.

From the outset, Brahms’ Cello Sonata No. 2 in F major, Op. 99 overflowed with grandeur and ardent passion. Thanks to the superb instrument, the pizzicato in the Adagio had an unusual depth, while the middle section of the Allegro passionato was yet another instance of the cello’s voice taking on an almost-human quality. The cheerful, hope-giving finale set the seal on arguably one of the best concerts of the year.

How wonderful to see Müller-Schott’s generous, open personality and poetic musicianship garner him quite a following of young fans, teeming in the audience and listening with rapt attention.
Reviewed by Tony Way

MUSIC
Ryman Healthcare Spring Gala: Joyce DiDonato ★★★★★
Melbourne Symphony Orchestra, Hamer Hall, November 21

Making her first major Australasian tour, American mezzo-soprano Joyce DiDonato confirmed her reputation as one of this generation’s most compelling classical singers in a memorably sophisticated account of Berlioz’ song cycle Nuits d’été (Summer Nights) with the Melbourne Symphony Orchestra under chief conductor Jaime Martín.

DiDonato took evident delight in revealing the elegant sensuality and profound emotion flowing from this supreme expression of French romanticism. Charting a journey from innocence through loss to new life, the six songs were a perfect vehicle for her vocal versatility.

Keenly alive to musical and textual nuance, DiDonato’s voice of liquid gold brought simple delight to Villanelle, exquisitely contrasted by the ruminative ecstasy of The Spectre of the Rose in which the climactic line, “I come from paradise” was superbly seductive. Contemplating isolation and death, On the Lagoons, Absence and At the Cemetery brought out the alluring, expressive qualities of her lower range, before radiant enthusiasm marked her sailing to The Unknown Isle.

A generous performer, DiDonato offered two encores: a steamy Habanera from Bizet’s Carmen and then, making a link between her native Kansas and the Land of Oz, a heartwarming rendition of Somewhere Over the Rainbow.

Beginning with Rossini’s William Tell overture may seem hackneyed but the initial rapturous cello solo brilliantly delivered by David Berlin offset the all-too-familiar gallop.

After interval came two-thirds of Respighi’s Roman trilogy: The Fountains of Rome and The Pines of Rome. While the latter undeniably ends in a blaze of glory, such unimaginative programming forfeited the opportunity of introducing a large audience to the least heard and arguably the best of the three suites, The Festivals of Rome.

That said, the orchestral playing was consistently engaging and the Berlioz especially was sensitively accompanied. However, the night belonged to DiDonato, who hopefully can dazzle Melbourne again soon.
Reviewed by Tony Way

MUSIC
Pixies ★★★★
Melbourne Festival Hall, November 19

Female bass players are to the Pixies as drummers are to Spinal Tap: they’ve had a lot of them. Kim Deal (1987-2012), Kim Shattuck (briefly in 2013), Paz Lenchantin (2014-2023) have all come and gone.

Now it’s Emma Richardson’s turn to provide the driving bass and sweet harmonies that are so crucial to the Boston-born band’s loud-quiet-loud dynamic. And she stands tall, literally and figuratively, towering over frontman Black Francis, guitarist Joey Santiago and drummer Dave Lovering when the four embrace and take a well-earned bow at the end of their blistering 32-song two-hour set on Wednesday night.

This is the back-to-back album show, in which the band play Bossanova (1990) and Trompe le Monde (1991) track by track, throwing in a handful of faves at the end for good measure. On this tour, they alternate set lists across two-night engagements, with the second set featuring a best-of collection from across their catalogue, plus some songs from their new album, The Night the Zombies Came.

Pixies are, and always have been, a no-nonsense noise machine. As they take the stage – unadorned, apart from a winged P and four spheres that morph from planets to eyes over the course of the show (nods to the respective albums’ cover art) – Francis takes a sip from a mug and says “hello time travellers” before offering some background on the origins of Cecilia Ann, the opening track on Bossanova (a cover of a Surftones song recorded in 1964 but not released until 1988, its origins are in French composer Gabriel Faure’s Sicilienne … apparently).

It’s the fourth time I’ve seen the Pixies live (the first was at their absolute peak in 1989), and before they’ve played a note, Francis has already said a lot more than in the three other shows combined.

He’s in a good mood, and no wonder. The band is tight as, ripping through songs at a rate of knots. “Thank you. The songs are kind of short, I know,” he says at one point. And he’s right. Some barely pass the 90-second mark.

His voice is different than it was in 1987, when their debut mini-album Come On Pilgrim blasted onto the world. It’s gruffer, scarred by the screams that litter many tracks, but the counterpoint upper register is still intact. It works.

Santiago’s guitar work is as good as ever, searing, surfy, scintillating, and on Velouria, Allison, Is She Weird and Dig For Fire, the band sounds as good as they ever did.

The energy kicks up a notch when they trip into the Trompe set, with barely a pause to note the transition. This is a punkier set of songs, fast and furious, and the crowd becomes more energised as the set wears on.

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The influence of Pixies, who recorded just four studio albums in their first wave of mutilation before breaking up in 1993 (and another five since reforming in 2004), has been well noted, with Nirvana and Weezer among the many to have paid homage. But on this night, with this set list, the backward lineage was apparent too: a cover of Jesus and Mary Chain’s Head On, the aforementioned Surftones track (and a general infusion of surf-guitar sounds throughout), and, in the final bracket of non-album tracks, Neil Young’s Winterlong.

It was a welcome reminder that although it sometimes felt like they’d arrived from nowhere – or, maybe, from outer space – the Pixies were indeed born of this world. They’re strange, jarring, at times unfathomable, but on this form they remain as vital as ever.
Reviewed by Karl Quinn

DANCE
Brigid ★★★
Dancehouse, until November 22

The room fills with haze while the dancers lie prone, hiding their faces. It’s an opening scene that recalls those old images of Celtic romance: an orange twilight glow, frothing vapours and ancient figures half-buried in the earth.

Brigid, created by Alice Heyward and Oisín Monaghan, is an evocation of the pagan Irish goddess of the same name, one of the folk divinities of that legendary age before recorded history – the imagined time of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

We actually know very little about this daughter of the Dagda. Her story has been partly obscured by the later Saint Brigid of Kildare, the famous abbess and miracle-worker, the so-called Mary of the Gael who turned dirty bathwater into beer.

In looking back to the older Brigid, Heyward and Monaghan seem to take her obscurity as a cue. This is a work full of uncertainties and strange vacancies amid the rattling, racketing old-style jigging that fills the space.

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The three performers – Heyward, Monaghan and Oonagh Slater – slowly raise themselves. You feel the heaviness of it, the work of dragging something old and earth-loving back into motion. They fall and fall again, landing with real weight.

The dancing arrives gradually. At first, they fall into step together: a fleeting suggestion, perhaps, of the goddess’s triple aspect. Then they separate, moving with apparent freedom across the long, windy gap between lights set at either end of the studio.

Monaghan’s boots slap the boards like antique flat irons. Or maybe hammers. Is this a vision of Brigid in her role as patroness of blacksmiths? The loud percussive steps follow closely the work of sound designer Gregor Kompar, who also performs live.

Heyward is lighter, almost airy, her rhythms more intimate, reminding us that Brigid brought fire and poetry. Her energy rises into something half-fevered, movement flickering and bright. Slater is more conversational, brisk but more regular.

There are several clearly marked sections, including a moment where the dancers retreat to the corners and wail. This is a nod to the story of her lament for her son, but it comes off as almost comic, suggesting mingled grief and joy.

Ritual is often a translation from the numinous to the legible; this work reverses the process, trying to conjure a lost divinity from choreography and remembered gestures. It’s an attempt, which, if nothing else, has its moments of peculiarity and beauty.
Reviewed by Andrew Fuhrmann

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