Ah! This Flathead virus never does ease, does it? You see- it's only been seven hours since the show and already I want to see it again. The memories tend to fade a little in my mind, the sharp, clear edges being washed away by a hot shower and the warmth of the bed and the one I love beside me. I feel as if it was only a fabulous dream, or some magnificent vision divined from a magical crystal ball. I remember it painfully vaguely now. However certain clear images tear into my mind's eye as live as the pen I hold and as emotion-filled as the words I attempt to convey.
How fantastic is this man, this troupe, this show we love so much and continue to love? I'm afraid the symbiosis that exists between us and Lord Flatley might never be fully realized. We might never know the true impact of such a phenomena. Think about it! Here sat 2500 people without the comfort of a roof over their heads sitting soaking wet in the cold rain and strong wind, and I doubt any one of us cared a bit. Yes, it was uncomfortable sitting in our plastic encasements huddled under umbrellas but when that wonderful moment arrived when The Little Spirit calls upon Lugh's warm light to awaken the sleeping Girls of Ireland, we fell under the same spell, and our world was warmly lit as well. The spell, I believe, is cast over all who see the show. The music began to crash over us in waves and the energy from the dancers soaked us even more than the rain. They knew that we had come and now sat in less-than-perfect conditions to see them. They knew that had it been anyone else, not even a dog would have sat voluntarily in a monsoon. It was us, the adoring masses that flattered and pushed them to give the best show I have seen in years. Better than the video, better even than Albany, The Lord of The Dance captivated me. The elements be damned that night, I was infected, inflicted and completely under a beautiful, wonderful, euphoric spell.
The whole show is a new experience. The new lighting, rich wit texture and undertone perfectly compliments the dancers and their characters, not only making the show more aesthetic to the eyes but completely syncopated to the music and character of the show. The token flashes and colors are still there, The Little Spirit still resides in her pool of white light, Lord Flatley didn't drop the bath of crimson he enters the stage from, and Erin the Goddess is ever enveloped in a golden sheath. The lighting surpasses excellence however, in the way it had back dropped the scenes. Saorise now dances against a soft, dappled pink and white lace which only serves to intensify the illusion that this is only Saorise's Celtic Dream. I began to have the feeling that if I blinked or even drew my breath that the vision would fade as quickly as it came. Bernadette's dreamlike elegance has only intensified since I saw her last, and her first solo convinced me she was a creature of the Sidhe. They might be called the Girls of Ireland, but I will debate their origins until I am blue from talking. As their dresses fluttered in the light breeze that managed to make it under the roof, they seemed as the wind itself. I could not stop thinking that I should arm myself, lest I be trapped in their world forever. (I have come to think that it might be too late.)
Don Dorcha stole the show last night. Some people believe that Daire Nolan will take the show from Flatley one day and might even win the duel for kicks one of these nights. His full out intensity and precision tapping won the hearts of many a Flathead last night. As frightening as the real Dark Lord of Celtic myth, the audience was both compelled to watch him and instinctively urged to turn from him. His eyes shone bright and intense, as if before the show he had drawn down the Evil Ones and the Horde had now taken up permanent residence in his body. He and his men ushered in a reign of fear over the crowd faster than Lord Flatley could bring us peace. Our hearts beat fast and a chill set in that was more than the cold and rain.
However- leave it up to the sultry Morrighan to heat the audience right up. Thanks to a spot of new, freer choreography, the wonderful Gillian Norris has finally brought the spice of the unstoppable Irish temptress into her own. Dancing beneath gently pulsating warm fall colors, the Temptress showed us all exactly what she came here for. When before relying on her youth and extraordinary beauty to snare us and Lord Flatley, Gillian now has the sensual maturity to fly her lovely frame around the stage in a way that excites and pleases. The ability is so honed that even the women in the audience were left wanting more, if only to learn "How the hell did she do THAT?" To end the Gypsy's almost erotic introduction, Gillian gave us all a flirtatious wink that screamed, "I'll be back later!" The reaction was akin to is she had held her address and phone number out in an open invitation. Gracefully whirling offstage, she contemplated what would happen with a smile that could melt lead. Gillian took our hearts, and our libidos, with her.
The new violinist is worthy of the place Mairead Nesbitt left for her. She is truly worth her weight in gold. She seems a bit young, and awfully cute. In a black leather outfit that would shame the Catwoman, she brought a distinctly classical air to Ronan's score, deeming the Irish fiddle worthy for the most exclusive concert hall. Cora, as usual, took our souls on a flying spiraling journey through the notes, and brought us back to our seats gasping for air. Her bow, and my heart, leapt and whirled with the melody and would not land until the final note. The psychic shock I felt at such a ride is, as yet, unable to articulate.
The Little Spirit is the one who brings us into the land of fantasy with her flute, and she is the one who the audience can look to understand the realm into which we have been placed. Helen Egan is a superlative actress that grabs our attention as soon as she glides unto the stage. As the crowd sat riveted by Don Dorcha, she marches out in her own way and gives us permission to release the fear that we had in the army. As the last lieutenant tries to scare her off, she now answers back with a defiant big step forward before the soldier keeps her back. Even then she stares at the audience as if to say, "What big dorks." the affinity we feel for the Little Spirit is, in a sense what the members of the audience feel for each other, a bond with which we have permission to laugh and cry. When Don Dorcha broke her flute, there were more than one series of grumbling shuddering through the crowd. And more than one thundering cheer as Lord Flatley repaired it. Helen Egan makes us love her Little Spirit, a goal that more than a couple actors have taken their whole lives to achieve.
Of course, no performance of Lord of the Dance should be critiqued without paying homage to the band and the lovely, gifted and talented solo soprano Anne Buckley. As Erin the Goddess, she is entrancing. Her hair lightly flew in the omniscient breeze as she sang, and the lighting enveloped her in a gauzy lace that made her seem the more ethereal. Her best song was by far the one that closes Act 1. Even though no one knows the title or words, the message was clear as some new sound effects and an echo boomed her magnificent voice as far away as Lake Ontario behind us. The wind only amplified the sound, carrying it and her echoing voice to carve out a piece of one's soul and keep it for her own. The Goddess was conveying a warning that everyone understood, even if Gaelic wasn't the native language. My heart only started to beat when the Little Spirit floated in behind her and began to play her simple tune of joy.
The band was perfect in every way. They simply shined in the flute jam with Lord Flatley. If you think about it, it is not only Lord Flatley and the dancers that keep our Flatley high sustained, but it is their playing that keeps our hearts happy in our cars, in our showers, and in places where to watch the video would be impractical. There is no other way I can say how impressed and awed by them but to say "Thank You."
In spite of all this excellence, the crowning jewel in the night, the one we tore off the plastic, ill-fitting hoods and stood soaking in the rain was Lord of the Dance himself, the dancing miracle, Michael Flatley. As he's said in so many interviews, "I play for the little old lady in the back row who spent her last dollar on a ticket." There at the Amphitheater, he was playing for the 2500 absolutely immortal Flatheads who braved hypothermia and pneumonia to watch him dance. After his first solo, he stared out into the wet with a smile of disbelief and posed to our adulation. It seemed to me that he was giving the awe right back. If 2500 wet and screaming fans didn't tell him plainly enough how much he was loved, I don't know what will. After showing just how ready his army was to combat the forces of Don Dorcha, Michael threw in a few taps and spins and a gratuitous butt-wiggle to make the females in the audience shiver. Obviously thanking his waterlogged throng of fans, he blew a kiss right out to us and smiled brightly. No one would suffer the cold when his light warmed the audience. As he closed Act 1, he was as happy as a man could be, with laughing eyes and a rapid, sprightly step that made us yell for encore. His dancing was poetic, his emotions unchecked as he fought Don Dorcha in the final duel. As the blast (bigger and better) ended Don Dorcha's short reign, he bellowed out a triumphant "YES!" that we heard right through the wind and rain. He seems an angel dancing with Saorise in Stolen Kiss, a sight that made me yearn for the arms of my one true love, though she was seated next to me. I breathed a sigh, shared by about 20 love struck females in my row, and leaned against the soft warmth that was my love and knew that Lord Flatley had just accomplished his goal with me. I looked at the screen, and he was smiling. During Planet Ireland, he had the whole crowd on it's feet, and even though there was only one encore, the crowd left satisfied and sated, until well, five o'clock in the morning where I pen this by the light of the hotel television on the tiny note cards the maid has left us in the tray.
Though I was prevented from meeting the source of this incredible journey, I am still burning with the desire to praise him for his wonderful vision. Though to some that may have never seen the show, this may sound corny and sappy, and even a bit obsessive and zealous, I say to Michael Flatley that he is not only a visionary, but a mystic dancer that now resides in the hearts of a nation of people that love him dearly. I am proud to count myself among them. Thank you, Lord Flatley- for everything.
pictures in progress...