Despite the silence here I have been playing. Not quite every day. On Wednesday we entertained a second house guest so I spent the evening cooking, talking and eating. Yesterday we went, the fan and I, to see
The Gloaming.
In the first place, the venue itself was enough to make the trek across to north London worthwhile. The Union Chapel towers above its neighbours, a row of four and five storied town houses with bars on the area windows. Houses and chapel alike hide modestly behind a fenced strip of grass and trees that immodestly describes itself as a gardens. Beyond this lies the road and then an endless strip of trendy shops and bars and eateries.
Inside there is much heavy wood, and stone, and staircases, and then you come out into the upper tier of a squat, octagonal room with a carved wooden ceiling from which depend four chandeliers. The low lighting, in red and blue, and the dry ice (or perhaps it was just steam from damp clothes: it was a wet night) only enhance the Victorian Gothic atmosphere. The pulpit, a monumental wodge of stone, which sits in front of three arches that look like portcullis, is huge, and it's easy to imagine a hellfire and brimstone preacher standing there, striking the fear of god into hundreds of hearts. I say hundreds because it's a big venue - I estimated perhaps 900.
Not every seat was full. And not ever seat remained full: I've never known an audience for such comings and goings. I don't know whether they were weak-bladdered, thirsty, desperate for a cigarette, or just too excited to remain seated, but there was an awful lot of coming and going.
Despite their hypermobility the audience were appreciative. I'm used to the staid local folk club where, during the second half, once enough beer has been drunk, and if someone in the band starts it, a few people will clap along roughly in time for half a tune. This audience greeted the band as if they were Elvis Presley, the Pope, and their oldest and best friends rolled into one. They listened in silence to the songs, and became more frenzied as the music speeded up, tapping and clapping and stamping and whooping. The standing ovation at the end was inevitable. Everyone was clearly enjoying themselves immensely.
From our seats up at one of the sides we had a limited view of the stage. I could see the pianist, who was a whole floor show in himself, posturing and posing, hunching forward, stretching back, drooping, pausing, removing layers of clothing... I could see Iarla, and the amazing Mr Hayes. The others I could only see by half standing and leaning over the pew in front.
The music itself it hard to describe. Irish, certainly, and many of the songs and tunes traditional, but played in untraditional ways. I've been used to think of
Mr Hayes as someone who slows music down, but some of this was played fast and furious. The hardanger was throaty, vibrant; the piano jazzy, funky. They weren't afraid to have someone sit out for most of a set. The sets started slow and quiet with a song - some very moving - and built and grew. Some of it felt classical, some of it baroque, but definitely, as I've said Irish, and beautifully so. It was absolutely fantastic.
We also very much enjoyed the
small Italian restaurant we stumbled on. Lovely people, lovely food.
