Martin Thomasson“Are you a fan of Ben UFO?” a friendly young woman asks as we walk into New Century Hall. I confess I’m not and make it worse by adding, “I have heard of him.” This is true (I think) but makes me about as cool as my dad would have been if he’d told me he’d ‘heard of’ Led Zeppelin. Never mind, Oren (or Lauren – pardon my hearing) is very forgiving – as people often are when encountering a fellow human so clearly out of his depth – and when I tell her I’m actually a fan of Sharon Eyal (and artistic director, Gai Behar), we establish a point of contact. We’re both eager to see how this coming together of two art forms works.
Into the space: dimly lit, misty, with raked terraces to two sides (you can sit, but they’re meant for standing), a bar at the far end, a dance floor (already busy) occupying centre stage and, against the opposite wall, already hard at work, Ben UFO.
I adopt an observer’s stance part way up one of the terraces, and watch the people file in: a fair range of ages (though, naturally, mainly young), a mixture of ethnicities, and a dress code which is clearly “Come as Yourself”. Happy, smiling, often excited faces.
“Bands won’t play no more,
Too much fighting on the dance floor.” (The Specials)
None of that, here. No edge of menace and conflict. Just geniality and a desire to escape the cold, harsh darkness out there for a warm, enfolding darkness in here.
Older people (like me) have lots to say (none of it positive) about modern dance music. Certainly it’s loud (but not nearly as loud as many bands I saw in 70s and 80s). Yes, the beat is repetitive, but often interesting (can a fan of Philip Glass and Steve Reich deride a fan of Ben UFO, et al?) Only rarely is the thudding stripped to that familiar 4:4 pounding that I’m convinced early superstar DJs lifted from Zeppelin’s “Trampled Under Foot”.
The simple rhythms provoke simple dances, but this is surely the point. It’s no longer about showing off your moves, but about moving freely and unselfconsciously. A kind of meditation (perhaps the kind in which our ancestors immersed themselves in ancient times). Being oneself, then letting go of that self and finding you’re no longer alone. “Oceanic”, as a devotee once described it to me.
I’m simultaneously charmed and educated. Nevertheless, half an hour in, amateur anthropologist sated, I’m pondering when and how Sharon Eyal’s troupe will function in this environment. For one thing, the floor is now so packed there seems nowhere for them to operate. Perhaps, I begin to speculate, this is a nonstarter. Perhaps, they just won’t show up…
And then, they’re there; manifesting miraculously in the midst of the throng. Two dancers pose in a tender, protective embrace, as if anticipating some catastrophic assault (bombs or arrows about to fall). The others, facing outwards, encircle them like a defensive phalanx in some final, defiant stand. The lighting changes as does the music (my favourite of the night). Those standing around seem uncertain how to react (captivated, nevertheless). Attired in flesh-coloured, skin-hugging leotards, piercings to noses and lips, teardrops sparkling and eyes caked heavily in mascara, they are uncompromising. Are they intergalactic travellers? messengers from our apocalyptic future? zombies? mummies? creatures from some black lagoon or parched and silvery desert?
Ten strong, they begin to move among us, sometimes as a wave and then as a spear, each one backing up the one in front. Their movement here is spasmodic, pointedly ungainly, yet their advance is irresistible. Audience members back away to make space – one or two, bold or bolshie, try to stand their ground, but soon nerves fail and they hurriedly step aside. It’s a compelling and exciting intervention – the first of five or six in the event. The zombie-steps of this opener will give way to powerful, graceful, accomplished dancing, all delivered with (literally) in-your-face self-belief.
I wonder whether those who have paid to groove to Ben UFO might weary of or come to resent these periodic intrusions into their introspective swaying, but the opposite seems to happen. One intervention begins at the back of the terrace where I’m standing. I only become aware of it as people start to hurry from the dance floor, up and past me, to get a closer look at what Eyal’s team is brewing.
By the third intervention, the dancers are welcomed like returning heroes. Each piece is different and this one involves the ensemble high-kicking its way through the encircling crowd – how’s that for bold, risk-taking choreography?
A couple of pieces are (seemingly improvised) solo performances. By now, the crowd has so taken Eyal’s dancers to heart that a space opens for them and delighted, appreciative faces move and approve each posture and gyration (mature readers may picture a 21st century version of those John Travolta solos in “Saturday Night Fever”).
The ovation as the troupe makes it final exit is noisy, wild and fully-earned.
At two-and-a-half hours it’s a young person’s game (and a highly recommended one). This weary old geezer is glad to have been there. I hope Oren/Lauren feels the same.
Manchester International Festival doing what it does best – something new and daring.
Carmel Thomason
Steve Timms
Reece Donlan
Jemma Christie