IN CELEBRATING the tenth anniversary of her company JazzXchange, the tenacious British dancer-choreographer Sheron Wray seems to want it both ways. Was the concert of music, dance and film at The Place on Tuesday night a performance or a party? Wray packed a lot into this fitfully entertaining programme, but it was both too much and not enough. The net effect was of a proud, ambitious undertaking insufficiently thought-out.

It began sensationally well thanks to Wray’s superb rendition of the late Jane Dudley’s 1938 solo Harmonica Breakdown. This short, succinct dance to Sonny Terry’s music has become a signature piece. Wray is the epitome of troubled stamina, punctuating a balance of determination and despair with bursts of rhythm.

Then came a messy, protracted first set full of starts and stops, with Wray acting as her own compère. Veering between graciousness and self-congratulation, her introductions merited the exhortation “Don’t talk about past achievements. Just dance!” Red, Wray’s 2002 collaboration with film-maker Dennis Morrison, was a sort of preview of coming attractions. The plan is to tour the live version of this work in the autumn. Set to Byron Wallen’s piquantly varied score, the dancing looks swift, expansive, fluid and a touch predatory. Unfortunately the lighting in the film was dim and the projection slightly distorted. Again, I grew impatient for live dancing.

It arrived via several sections of Wray’s work-in-progress Are There Any Volunteers?, to live music by F-IRE Collective. It’s a peppy piece with a vague militaristic slant. Ten female dancers, plus one man, in camouflage-themed street garb, rotated airplane arms and embarked on follow-the-leader routines. These live extracts were interspersed with video montages from the company archives, and nice-and-easy musical interludes from singer Cleveland Watkiss and jazz pianist Julian Joseph.

The second act began unpromisingly with Special Request, Henry Letts’s 1997 film of Wray on a kinetic razzle on the streets of New York City. Hyperedited and shot in saturated colours, its roving camera could induce seasickness.

Redemption was at hand in Lucky for Some, a tripart dance set to rich excerpts from Wynton Marsalis’s The Marciac Suite. Horn riffs triggered explosions of lush, juicy movement in Wray and six switched-on women in costumes pitched between boudoir, ballroom and aerobics class. An enjoyably exaggerated funeral procession segued into a happy, sweaty, be-bop-driven last section. Tucked inside was a whirlwind solo of calculated abandon from Wray. Finally her performance had become a party you were glad to attend.