Tammy L. Wong
(Esplanade Theatre Studio | 14 October 2006, 8pm)

“This was my city,” sighed the sweet, recorded voice of Tammy L. Wong. “I once lived there.” The Singapore-born dancer’s musings accompanied some of the action in About Last Night, her latest creation since returning here in 2005. Commissioned by the Esplanade for its first-ever da:ns festival, the performance felt warmly familiar, secure in its rustling patterns of feeling.

Almost four years have passed since Wong shut down her self-named dance group. She continued to choreograph freelance, later moving to the United States for postgraduate studies at the University of California, Irvine, where she gained a mentor in modern-dance giant Donald McKayle. In San Diego, she presented Monday Afternoon at the Blurred Borders International Dance Festival in mid-2005.

Like Wong’s prior works, About Last Night was spawned from the heart and sprouted from a mind-blowing life moment — this one, her brush with 1992’s Los Angeles race riots. It was made on a mixed crew of Singaporeans and foreigners, old and new faces, resembling the fluid roster of personnel that danced with her now-defunct company. Tommy Wong, a frequent collaborator of no relation, designed the production.

She doesn’t mind setting movement to a hotchpotch of music, or recycling her material; steps, phrases, even an earlier solo, could be woven into a later piece. Here, Arvo Pärt, Bach and live jazz recordings spotted with applause shared the same tape, while a previous duet — which the Esplanade programmers had loved from her audition video — appeared at the end.

Wong also asked her dancers to talk and sing. They crooned in Remembering Jesus (2000); in her 2002 restaging of Child, the performers counted out playground games, announcing their names and ages. They’re better off dancing. Yet, their strained vocals bared their joys, fears and woes, and made them human.

In About Last Night, the cast of seven kept mum onstage. Their voiceovers, instead, pierced the air with snapshots of the past. What Wong tried to evoke in the 50-minute dance was her city: its residents spilling into the night streets, breathless from rioting, partying; its lovers enjoying their private time together; the background buzz of traffic; the random clouds of smoke. Crosscut with quiet solos on and off pointe, the piece’s rough three-part structure gave her scaffolding on which to hang her modern-balletic lexis and gestural expressions. It kept her from rambling.

Often running on high, the dancing was grave and light. The dancers muscled through space in expansive gestures and brisk, beating footwork. They scampered nervously in the red-hued opening, facing us in militant rows and circling fallen friends. Later, clad in black and white, they loosened up for a private bash. They swopped partners, played tag. The games never stopped, even when some of them took a break at the side.

In the closing segment, Omar Olivas ran his fingers up the chest of a supine Olivia Eng, initiating their sensual tug-of-war on and around a table. He picked her up between his legs; she arched her torso skyward. All teasing smiles, their duet centred on the sharing of weight, the playful verve of their lifts. Neither gave up without a fight in this tight squeeze. This was Wong at her romantic best.