Visual artists gave up on titles long ago, resorting to neutral labels such as Untitled. Choreographers still feel bound to tag their works descriptively, which can be a challenge if the dance is about everything or nothing. The Irish director-choreographer Michael Keegan-Dolan found a neat solution in MÁM , the 80-minute piece he made when he first arrived in West Kerry in 2019, choosing an Irish word that means so many things, and so many different things, that as a title it can only suggest everything and nothing all at once. A mountain pass, a burden or obligation, a handful of something … take your pick.
The opening minutes of the show are strange, sinister and absolutely riveting. A young girl, dressed in white as if for first holy communion, lies on a table presided over by a man with the head of a giant ram. It takes a while to realise that the low, wheezing sound we’re hearing – which could be the breath of an wounded animal or the wind on a hillside – is coming from a musical instrument, a concertina held by the ram-headed man (pictured below). Suddenly the threat shifts to a dozen black-clad, black-masked adults, seated on a line of chairs, stamping out a rhythm with their heavy black brogues. To our relief, the little girl seems unfazed, opens a packet of crisps and starts to munch her way through them.
MÁM is full of moments in which the expected doesn’t transpire. In a flash the adults are unmasked and cavorting, feet flying, elbows working like pistons, in response to a reel played on the concertina. Ram-head removed, the musician is revealed to be Cormac Begley, a star of Irish traditional music. It’s his virtuosity, both in the fiddledy-diddly toe-tapping stuff and in heart-tugging laments, that drives the action. He’s later joined by s t a r g a z e, a seven-piece classical/jazz improv ensemble, who find ever more ingenious ways to collaborate with him.
The music happens on a raised platform, while on the floor of the stage we slowly recognise the features of a wake, taking place in what might be a church hall. The wild reels alternate with dips in energy, changes of seating arrangements, solos suggestive of verbal outbursts. At one point a man, clearly tanked up, suddenly feels a rush of love for his fellow man and woman and races around kissing them all, several of them twice, although there’s one man that he avoids every time, which raises a laugh. At another point another man, having a sit-down between reels, cannot resist the beat. At first it’s a twitch he can’t control, then a shudder of the shoulders and hips, then his whole body, vibrating as if several volts are running through it, until he’s on his feet and off again, joining the melée of hopping and twirling guests.
The little girl (Delilah Neilson) is a constant presence as she stands and watches, neither amused nor dismayed by what she sees of grown-up behaviour. Our eyes are repeatedly drawn to her. We are reminded of the resilience of children, and the marvel of how they make their way into adulthood despite the perplexing examples we set for them. Perhaps sensibly, in the midst of the mayhem, this child lies down on the floor and goes to sleep.
Society, myth and even mysticism all find a place in MÁM, not to mention the vibrant music-making, without being “Irish” in a touristic way. The end, when it comes, in a great swirl of wind and light and sound, leaves you not only shaken and stirred, but also wondering about the best means of travel to the coast of South Kerry, where Teaċ Daṁsa – this extraordinary company, whose name means “dance house” – has now set up home. In the meantime there’s a chance to see it on its first UK tour.
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