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Bach: Metamorphose

Cover of Neobarock Bach CD Metamorphose

NeoBarock
55:55
ambitus amb 95 606

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This CD is one of those many available in recent years that give us the supposed original of works by J. S. Bach that are known from later parodies, versions or arrangements by the composer. They increase the availability to – in this case – string players of works that might only be known to us in fuller or more varied combinations of instruments. In this case all four reconstructions are for two violins and basso continuo, the classic trio sonata combination for which Bach seems to have written nothing in spite of the fact that his obituary declared that he left ‘a large amount of other instrumental pieces’.

Probably the best-known work to receive this treatment is BWV 1043, the double violin concerto in D minor. In a substantial essay, the moving spirit of NeoBarock, Maren Ries, makes the case for the concerto version being a later adaptation, where nothing substantial is added to the doubling violin parts in the tuttis, and the viola adds only such harmonies as are implied by the bass, and indeed nothing is lost in their trio sonata version.

The playing is neat and spirited, and I never found myself wishing for the large backing group. In terms of the clarity of the composition and the engagement of the players, this opening movement version sounds much like the ritornelli in the tenor aria in Part IV.6 of the Christmas Oratorio, Ich will nur dir zu Ehren leben. Nor does the second movement with its minimal string chords lose anything. I found some of the sudden ritardandi surprising, but elegantly managed, otherwise I think the most ardent HIP purist will find nothing except delight in this version.

The same goes for me in the adaptation of the violin sonata in A (BWV 1015). While playing this, I never found it possible to balance the violin part with the right hand of the harpsichord as I am sure it should be. In those trio sonatas that are so many of the arias for voice and a single obbligato instrument in the cantatas, I have been keen to explore similarity in dynamic range with distinctiveness in tone colour. So I welcome a version that puts the two melodic lines on instruments of similar dynamic range, but wonder about tonal contrast. Would an oboe d’amore or a traverso be worth a try here? Series VII Band 7 of the NBA gives us five reconstructions of presumed solo concerti: might the editors consider the reverse process and be ready to include the reconstructions of supposed original chamber works?

The other works here are versions of BWV 1029 and 1028. We already have Bach’s own version of 1027 for two traversi and continuo in BWV 1039, and there is good circumstantial evidence that the others have earlier versions along the lines of those offered here. The essay is wholly plausible, and I hope that some of the other material in the Bach-Archiv will find varied life in chamber music versions. I enjoyed La Tempesta di Mare’s versions of the trio sonatas for organ when they came out, and hope that other groups will take up the challenge.

David Stancliffe

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Recording

Ockeghem: Complete Songs volume 1

Cover of Blue Heron Ockeghem CD

Blue Heron, Scott Metcalfe
76:49
Blue Heron BHCD 1010 (6 45312 49963 2)

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This is the first of two CDs which will include all Ockeghem’s surviving chansons. Following hard on the heels of their fine recording of Rore’s first book of madrigals (see my review in EMR November 10, 2019), and ever mindful of their series of discs containing music from the Peterhouse partbooks,  the final one of which won the prestigious Gramophone early music prize, expectations could not be higher: will Blue Heron’s performances complement the greatness of Ockeghem’s music?

Two of the thirteen songs are not attributed to him. The anonymous rondeau En atendant vostre venue is included because it quotes from his Quant de vous seul which is sensibly placed to precede it on the disc; and Au travail suis is attributed to both Ockeghem and Barbingant in different sources, but because it similarly quotes Ma maitresse it is attributed here to Barbingant and likewise included after the work it quotes. Two other works survive anonymously but in circumstances that point to Ockeghem as their likely composer. All this is explained in scrupulous detail by Sean Gallagher in the excellent accompanying booklet, which also contains a fine essay by Scott Metcalfe about performing the songs, with sections on instruments, interpretation of surviving underlay, and pronunciation.

Those of us listening to or performing Ockeghem’s music have the benefit of perspective. Specifically: his contemporaries could hear his songs simply as the music itself and/or as it had been influenced by the work of his predecessors. They would also have noticed elements that were original, and perhaps some that reflected a personal style. From the 21st century we have the additional benefit of hearing how his music influenced and affected subsequent musical developments, not only among his disciples, but also over the centuries up to the 20th and 21st. While we have expectations of what late mediaeval or early Renaissance composers’ music will sound like, we could not reasonably expect Ockeghem’s songs to sound in some places so remarkably prophetic, even modern. Admittedly the listener has to rely on the editor to have reproduced accurately what Ockeghem intended to be heard 500 years ago but, taking this on trust, many passages in these songs reach effortlessly across the centuries. Even as soon as the first three words of the opening track Ockeghem is shaking hands with later generations and there is another striking passage in Fors seullement contre ce qu’ay promis at “une belle aliance”. (Philip A. Cooke’s recent book about James MacMillan mentions his subject’s assimilation of Ockeghem’s technique.) While such passages might not be unparalleled in music of this period, their placing by Ockeghem is so assured as to seem that he is, so to speak, setting an agenda for musicians of the future. Like all the greatest composers he is able to combine exquisite melodies with the highest technical accomplishment, so that however many verses a song possesses, each one is welcomed anew by the listener, who at the conclusion is left wanting more.

The performances are superb, serving this music with the perfect balance of restraint and commitment. Just occasionally, as in the taxing discantus part of Fors seullement contre ce qu’ay promis, there is just a hint of insecure intonation, but Blue Heron live up to their reputation as among the finest interpreters of early music on the planet. There are recordings of Ockeghem’s music which are as good – one thinks of the masses sung by The Clerks’ Group under Edward Wickham – but this is only to be demanded when performing music of this quality.

Instrumental participation, so often the Achilles heel of this sort of recording, is limited, capable, judicious and discreet. Conductor Scott Metcalfe plays the contratenor parts on the harp on four of the thirteen tracks, the vielle on another (Au travail suis attributed to Barbingant) and duets on the vielle with Laura Jeppesen on the setting of O rosa bella a2 with a discantus attributed to each of Bedyngham and Ockeghem.

A second disc of Ockeghem’s songs, again sung by Blue Heron, is in place. And in the case of Ockeghem, more of the same means more of his wonderful difference.

Richard Turbet

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Haydn 2032 No. 8 – La Roxolana

Haydn 2032 vol. 8 La roxolana CD cover

Il Giardino Armonico, Giovanni Antonini
Symphonies 28, 43, 63 + Anonymous (Sonata jucunda), Bartók (Romanian folk dances)

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Not the least of the pleasures of this exhilarating series has been the works supplementing the Haydn symphonies, invariably to some (at times tenuous) thematic purpose. This time we are given perhaps the most surprising to date, the set of Bartók’s seven tiny Romanian folk dances originally for piano, but orchestrated by the composer in 1917. So if you’ve ever wondered what Bartók sounds like on period instruments, now’s your chance. The results are nothing less than electrifying, given the virtuosity and verve of Antonini’s superlative players, whether in the scrunchy chords of no. 1, the rubato brought to no. 2, the wistful no. 4, with its plangent violin solo, or the extraordinary sound of Giovanni Antonini’s Renaissance flute in no. 3. All is explained in his notes, devoted to what Antonini describes as ‘the birth of crossover’, or music from traditions other than so-called ‘classical music’.

Also falling into this category is the anonymous Sonata Jucunda (‘cheerful sonata’), a manuscript from the important collection housed in Kromĕříž Castle in Moravia, which also includes the manuscripts of a number of Haydn’s works. Composed in the style of Biber, it includes eleven brief connected movements that evolve from a solemn opening adagio to incorporate traditional music from the Haná region of Moravia, some sections given a delightfully quirky character.

The earliest of the three Haydn symphonies is No. 28 in A, a modestly scored work that dates from 1765. H. C. Robbins Landon conjectured that it originated as incidental music for a play presented at Eisenstadt in that year, an idea expanded by the notes for the present CD, which suggests the comedy Die Insel der gesunden Vernunft (The Isle of Common Sense) as the source. The opening Allegro certainly has a feel of barely suppressed excitement before eventually breaking out in the full orchestra, while the Poco Adagio suggests a nocturnal walk. Robbins Landon believes it could have served as an entr’acte. Symphony No. 43 in E-flat, nicknamed ‘The Mercury’ in the 19th century for no discernable reason, dates from 1770. It opens with a strongly announced chord, answered by sotto voce strings before proceeding to an animated Allegro bristling with tremolandi. The Adagio is wonderfully atmospheric, a lyrical musing that in its second half moves to a world of introspection. If No. 28 can conjecturally be linked to a stage work, no such doubts arise with Symphony No. 63 in C, the work that gives this volume its name. Composed around 1779/80, it is one of several composite symphonies from that period. The affable opening Allegro is taken from the overture to the comic opera Il mondo della luna, composed in 1777, while the nocturnal theme of the succeeding set of variations, ‘La Roxelana’ comes from incidental music for a play given at Ezsterháza in which the French lady of the title wins the favour of the Turkish emperor Suliman in the face of competition from two other ladies. The bustling Presto finale again has the feel of theatre.

All this music is played with dynamic panache, along with the sensitivity and delicacy all noted as characteristics of earlier issues. With well-judged tempos and acute balance enabling part-writing to be revealed in translucent textures, these are performance that convey a spirit of fresh spontaneity, while at the same time giving full value to every single bar.

Brian Robins

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Charpentier: Histoires sacrées

CD cover of Charpentier Histoires sacrées Daucé

Ensemble Correspondances, Sébastien Daucé
160:51 (2 CDs + Bonus DVD)
harmonia mundi HMM 902280.81

There is a cornucopia of riches packed into this slim-line presentation, so much so that its full worth will surely only became apparent after it has been lived with rather longer than the demands of reviewing time allow. At its heart lie three of the Latin oratorios, or histoires sacrées (neither incidentally terms used by Charpentier himself), biblical or historical religious dramas that follow the format of a narration – which might be sung solo, by a small vocal ensemble or even a chorus – into which characters are given their own voice. It’s a model Charpentier adopted from the three years he spent in Rome (1662 to 1665) and particularly from what he learned from his close contact there with Giacomo Carissimi. The three works are Judith, sive Bethulia liberata, H 391 (1674-76), Cæcilia, virgo et martyr, H 397 (1677-78) and Mors Saülis et Jonathae, H 403 (1681-82). The two former, along with works appertaining to Mary Magdalene, form the contents of the DVD. This presents staged versions recorded in a concert held in the sumptuous surroundings of the Chapelle Royale at Versailles, providing a theme of three greatly admired women whose moral strength was held up as exemplary by the Counter-Reformation, a strong influence via the Jesuits on the works of both Charpentier and Carissimi.

There is no evidence that the Latin oratorios were staged, but strongly dramatic writing and, at times, content makes them a tempting proposition for a producer. The Versailles performance employs a single set with large Roman arches left and right of the back of the stage and two (rather too easily) movable rocks on which some rather ungainly clambering takes place. The same costumes, a mix of vaguely middle-Eastern influence and modern dress are used for both works. There is no attempt at period production, perhaps fortunately given that much of what action takes place is not convincingly projected. Not infrequently what we see conflicts with the text, most obviously at the critical moment of Holofernes’ decapitation, where the Biblical text tells us the Assyrian King ‘lay on his bed fast asleep, being exceedingly drunk’, but we see Judith pawing a half-naked figure who is very much awake. Conversely there are moments, often helped by excellent lighting, that are highly effective, the union of the martyred Cecilia with the crucified Christ creating a Bernini-like image totally in accord with the Counter-Reformation spirit of the piece. The performances of both oratorios feature outstanding solo and ensemble singing, Charpentier’s at times piquant or tortuously dissonant harmonies emerging in the latter with unusually telling force. The eponymous protagonists of the two oratorios, Caroline Weynants (Judith) and Judith Fa (Cecilia) are especially good, the former finding real sensitivity in the prayer before the extraordinary night scene in which she visits the camp of Holofernes. The highest praise also goes to the richly-toned alto Lucile Richardot, a deeply affecting Mary Magdalene in the tender elevation motet O sarcramentum pietatis, H 274 and Magdalena lumens, one of three motets composed by Charpentier for Mary’s feast day. To complete the programme’s dramatisation all three women are brought together in the three-part a cappella motet ‘Sub tuum praesidium’, in actuality an antiphon to the Virgin

Although the audio recording also includes the two oratorios, the motets are only on the DVD. The major addition to the CDs is Mors Saulis, a masterpiece on the subject of the death of Saul and his son Jonathan, the latter deeply mourned by David. It’s a topic to which Charpentier would return in his 5-act tragédie lyrique David et Jonathas, H 490 (1688). Despite not having a dramatic context the oratorio carries extraordinary theatrical power, most spectacularly in the scene between Saul and the Witch of Endor, superbly carried off here by bass Étienne Bazola and, again, Lucile Richardot. The mourning of David, ‘Doleo super te’ is in the tradition of the great 17th-century laments and done with great sensitivity by tenor Davy Cornillot.

Among the smaller works on the CDs are the impressive 8-part funeral motet ‘Plaintes des âmes du purgatories’, and three works belonging to the dialogus type, smaller dramatic works generally cast for two or three characters and continuo, the most impressive here being between Christ and Mary Magdalene (H 423), an exquisite little masterpiece than makes great use of Jesus’ famous words ‘noli mi tangere’ (touch me not).

As I said at the outset, such are the riches here that they demand much greater acquaintance; Charpentier is one of those rare composers to maintain an astonishingly high quality over the course of a large output. These marvellous performances – and I realise I’ve said nothing about instrumental playing (employing 17th-string technique) of the highest quality and completely idiomatic direction – will unquestionably repay deeper investigation and could well take their place at the core of a Charpentier collection.

Brian Robins

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Hellinck: Missa Surrexit pastor bonus | Lupi: motets

Cover of CD booklet for Hellinck and Lupi

The Brabant Ensemble
70:39
hyperion CDA68304

Recording and releasing a programme of music by two composers whose names are unknown (and almost comically similar) could be seen as a risk. Needless to say, Stephen Rice can be trusted to spot talent even when it has lain dormant for five centuries. Lupus Hellinck (1493/4-1541), seemingly a Dutch speaker, spent his career in the Low Countries at Bruges, now the capital of West-Vlaanderen, or West Flanders, in modern Belgium. His mass, based upon a motet by Andreas De Silva (c. 1475/80-c. 1530), begins with a pleasant and competent Kyrie, whereafter, while following the musical narrative, the ear picks up judiciously placed musical gems in each movement, including a delicious dissonance closing the first section of the Gloria, a beautiful cadence closing the first section of the Credo, then best of all a glowing Hosanna to the Sanctus. This is sung more animatedly when repeated after the Benedictus, rising to sheer incandescence. The Benedictus itself is an austere duet for tenor and bass (not present in the print of 1547 used for the recording, but preserved in a manuscript source) making the impact of the concluding Hosanna all the more thrilling. A fine Agnus leading to a quite sublime “Dona nobis pacem” brings this rich and rewarding work to a close.

Johannes Lupi (c. 1506-1539) spent most of his career at Cambrai, then also in the Low Countries but subsequently annexed by France. The three motets and Te Deum here emanate from a voice quite different from Hellinck. Salve celeberrima virgo is a thrilling piece in eight parts, evocative but not derivative of Gombert, laced with piquant dissonances and some sweeping themes. Quam pulchra es sets some particularly arousing verses from The Song of Solomon. The ostensibly incongruous but extravagantly florid Amen after the concluding text “Ibi dabo tibi ubera mea” – There will I give you my breasts – could be heard as a response to those words, albeit they are also laced with some more piquant dissonances by Lupi. It all leads one to raise an eyebrow at the idea of this particular Biblical Book being other than a masterpiece of very secular erotic poetry. Benedictus Dominus Deus Israel, notwithstanding the presence of a setting of the Te Deum as the following and concluding track, is, as Stephen Rice observes in his scholarly booklet, “a free-standing motet” and not a canticle. The Te Deum itself is through-composed but although Lupi sets it sectionally, Stephen Rice bustles it along without losing any of the appetizing details, such as (yet more) dissonances towards the end of tracks 25 “Tibi omnes angeli” and 28 “Te per orbem”, and the interesting cadences closing tracks 27, 30 and 34, “Te gloriosus apostolorum chorus”, “Tu ad liberandum” and “Salvum fac” . He also strategically relaxes the tempo during track 28. Lupi himself provides variety with some homophony throughout most of track 32 “Te ergo quaesumus” amongst the prevailing polyphony; and with some reduced scoring occasionally down to two voices in passages dotted throughout the canticle. Stephen Rice notes that in track 36 the section “et laudamus nomen tuum” is in fauxbourdon. It provides a crashing change of gear from the rest of the work, as if a mediaeval voice has risen to intervene in this mellifluous Renaissance composition. Yet, perhaps because fauxbourdon is part of the creative continuum from which Franco-Flemish polyphony evolved, Lupi integrates it superbly, adding it to the ingredients which go towards making this piece a worthy conclusion to a disc which brings these two composers back into the limelight where, on the evidence of this recording, they both so deservedly belong.

Richard Turbet

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Music for Milan Cathedral

CD cover booklet for Music for Milan Cathedral

Siglo de Oro, Patrick Allies
66:28
Delphian DCD34224
Music by Gaffurius, Josquin, Phinot, Weerbeke & Weerecore

How many more gifted Franco-Flemish composers from the generation between Josquin and Palestrina are going to be rescued from undeserved neglect? Notwithstanding negativity about the CD business from Dismal Jimmies, or indeed Harries, recording companies continue to exist, they make recordings with the finest artistes, and they keep coming up with impressive unknowns. The sacred music of Hermann Matthias Werrecore, a name previously unfamiliar to this reviewer, is featured on over half of the tracks of this fine recording and it is a revelation. Werrecore was maestro di cappella at Milan Cathedral for over thirty years, from 1522 to 1557 or 1558. His surname suggests Flemish origins in Vercore, Hainaut, but seemingly records at Milan Cathedral state that he was the son of a father resident in Milan. Of the eleven motets on this disc, six are by Werrecore, including two – Popule meus and Ave maris stella – that run the longest, at over ten minutes apiece. In his day he was hailed as the successor to Josquin, two of whose motets are included. It is true that he quotes or homages Josquin, but stylistically it is clear not only that he is of the generation after Josquin, but also that he is entirely his own man, and these references to his predecessor are entirely on his own terms. While it is insulting and destructive to pigeonhole any composer, it is useful and important to try to indicate what listeners approaching this music anew might expect to hear. For all that he is a close contemporary of Gombert, Werrecore’s “sound” is less intense and not so much founded upon continuous counterpoint sung by a full ensemble, a style represented on this recording by the excellent motet Homo quidam fecit by Dominique Phinot (hear more of his superb music on Hyperion CDA67696 sung by the Brabant Ensemble) who was hailed as the precursor of Palestrina in the same way that Werrecore was hailed as Josquin’s successor! Werrecore is masterful at varying tempo and scoring, so he can excel equally in a short funeral motet such as Proh dolor as in the two lengthy motets already mentioned. Indeed, there are moments of ecstasy in his motets, not least in Inviolata, integra et casta es Maria which begins this recording, and which is a match for the better-known setting by Josquin with which it closes. It also includes a fine motet each by Gaffurius, more famous as a theorist, and the earlier composer Gaspar van Weerbeke, who might have been born a few years before Josquin. The performances by Siglo de Oro under Patrick Allies are radiant: ideally balanced and paced to perfection, they shed Mediterranean light upon this already outstanding repertory.

Richard Turbet

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A Lute by Sixtus Rauwolf

CD cover Lindberg Sixtus Rauwolf

Jakob Lindberg
81:50
BIS-2265 SACD
Music by Dufault, Kellner, Mouton, “Mr Pachelbel”, Reusner, Weiss

Jakob Lindberg’s first CD featuring the lute made c. 1590 by Sixtus Rauwolf, is an anthology of music by French and German composers. It begins with a sombre Padoana by Esias Reusner (1636-79), which lies low on the instrument and is reminiscent of English lute pavans such as those by Daniel Bacheler. There follow two suites by two of the most important French lutenist composers in the 17th century, François Dufault (before 1604-c.1672) and Charles Mouton (1626-after 1699). The clarity of the Rauwolf lute is heard to good effect in Mouton’s jolly Canaries ‘Le Mouton’, where a high treble exchanges musical ideas with a lower voice, supported by occasional notes in the bass, giving the impression that three instruments are being played.

Towards the end of the 17th century, lute music waned in France, but it continued to wax in Germany. Lindberg plays a suite by David Kellner (c.1670-1748), who for much of his life worked as an organist in Stockholm. The suite begins with Campanella (presto assai), presumably an imitation of bells, but nothing like the change-ringing of Fabian Stedman and others which would have been heard in England by that time. The alternation of thumb and a finger creates a precise sound verging on the mechanical. Gone are the subtle suggestions of melody by earlier French composers. The old style brisé where melodies and bass lines were broken imaginatively into a succession of single notes, with Kellner they become more a predictable succession of broken chords, and if there is a slow-moving melody, each note is followed by an off-beat on a higher string creating a rather irritating drone-like effect. His Sarabande, on the other hand, has a charming melody, which is divided effectively into single notes for the double repeat. Interestingly, apart from cadential hemiolas, there are no notes stressed on the second beat of the bar, a feature which characterised earlier sarabandes; Kellner’s is more like a slow waltz. Next comes a suite by ‘Mr Pachelbel’, possibly Johann Pachelbel (c.1653-1706), best known today for having written a Canon. According to Tim Crawford’s liner notes, Pachelbel’s Allemande ‘L’Amant mal content’ is based on ‘L’Amant malheureux’ by the French lutenist Jacques de Gallot (d. c.1690). The CD ends with a fine suite in A major by Silvius Leopold Weiss (1687-1750), eight movements in all, including a Gigue played with tasteful panache, and a long Ciacona, with contrasting variations.

Stewart McCoy

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Jan Antonín Losy: note d’oro

Lost note d'oro CD cover Lundberg

Jakob Lindberg
82:15
BIS-2462 SACD (ecopak)

Jan Antonín Losy  (c.1650-1721) is arguably one of the most important composers for the 11-course lute, at least according to the frontispiece of LeSage de Richée’s Cabinet der Lauten (Breslau, 1695), where a pile of books has Losy’s music on top, above books by Gaultier, Mouton and Dufaut. I have always admired his music, and played some every day in 2019 without exception. His compositions are satisfying to play, pleasing to the ear, with well-sructured melodic lines, interesting harmonies, and considerable variety. There is a lightness of texture resulting from a fair amount of style brisé. In 1715, the Prague Kapellmeister, Gottfried Heinrich Stöltzel, described how Losy would savour a particular dissonance, calling it “una nota d’oro” (a golden note), hence the title of Jakob Lindberg’s CD.

The CD begins with a suite in A minor, compiled by Lindberg from various sources, including a Prelude adapted from one for baroque guitar, and a Courante and Double with an unobtrusive touch of notes inégales and a surprising secondary dominant towards the end. Lindberg’s playing is most gratifying – lively yet unhurried, with well-shaped phrases allowing the harmonies to follow their logical course to a final cadence, which is almost invariably decorated with dissonance on the tonic. An Aria is played at a very sedate speed, giving time for delicate ornaments to be heard clearly, followed by a thoughtful Gavotte enhanced by what I assume are Lindberg’s own additional notes for repeats. The suite ends with a lively two-voice Caprice, where fast running notes are shared between treble and bass. Next comes a suite in F major, the seven selected movements long known to modern lute players from Emil Vogel’s Z Loutnových Tabulatur Českého Baroka (Prague: Editio Supraphon, 1977). After a slow, stately start, the overture breaks into three fast beats in a bar, developing a theme of three crotchets and four quavers, before returning briefly to the slower speed of the beginning. Then comes a restful Allemande with much imitation, nice little variants (presumably Lindberg’s own) for repeats, and a passage of parallel tenths played brisé for the repeat. The overall pitch then drops for a Courante, which canters along in continuous quavers in style brisé, so that in the second section there are only three places where more than one note is played at a time. The piece ends with a descending sequence, which Lindberg decorates for a petite reprise. In contrast the following Sarabande has a thicker texture, with many rolled chords. Its second section begins with a surprising chord of C minor, played on the lower reaches of the lute – its highest note (g) is on the fourth course. As with so many of these pieces, Lindberg tastefully adds myriad extra notes to enliven repeats.

There is just one place in the whole of this delightful CD where I think something is not quite right. In the Sarabande of the Suite in D minor, the F major chord at the start of bar 13 should really be in root position, but Lindberg plays it as a second inversion with the note c in the bass, and does the same for the repeat. I wonder if his edition has that note accidentally notated one line too low in the tablature.

With suites in A minor, F major, G major, D minor, G minor and B flat major, ending with a Chaconne in F major, there is much to enjoy. Apart from Lindberg’s masterful playing, there is one thing which makes it all rather special: his lute was built c. 1590 by Sixtus Rauwolf of Augsburg, probably as a seven- or eight-course instrument, and surprisingly it still has its original soundboard. It was later adapted to be an 11-course lute, and was restored a few years ago by Michael Lowe, Stephen Gottlieb and David Munro. Its sound is well balanced, with clear bright notes in the treble, and bass notes which are not too loud and do not sustain too long. With its variety of tone colours, it helps make the music sing, and must undoubtedly be an inspiration to play. Note d’oro indeed.

Stewart McCoy

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Secret Fires of Love

Cover of Secret Fires of Love album

Daniel Thomson, Terry McKenna, Thomas Leininger, Studio Rhetorica, directed by Robert Toft
65:11
Talbot Productions TP1701

This recital offers a rather lovely programme of English and Italian music from the early 17th century (Dowland, Monteverdi, etc.) and the later decades when ‘the Baroque period’ was in full swing (Purcell, Albinoni, etc.). I rather liked (especially through headphones) the deliberately intimate recorded sound and the restrained performing forces. I doubt the stylistic credentials of some of the continuo playing, on both lute and harpsichord, but it is the vocal style that will excite or appal (or even both) most listeners. I offer a quotation from the blurb:

 ‘[The singer] uses techniques of rhetorical delivery to re-create the natural style of performance listeners from the era would have heard… This requires him to alter the written scores substantially and his dramatic singing combines rhetoric and music in ways that have not been heard since the Renaissance and Baroque eras.’

Passing swiftly over these rather extravagant claims which I think many might question, I suppose the singing might be summed up as focussing very much on the word and micro-phrase rather than any sense of a ‘line’ and not all listeners will warm to this and other details – the portamenti, for instance. (I was reminded several times of the Sting/Dowland experiment, which wasn’t actually all bad, and some aspects of Alfred Deller’s performances.) It’s a very intense listen and I’m not absolutely sure that I enjoyed it, but it certainly commanded my attention and I do expect to return to at least small groups of items for pleasure rather than duty.

David Hansell

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Monteverdi: Vespro della Beata Vergine

Bestion Monteverdi Vespro CD cover

La Tempête, Simon-Pierre Bestion
142:07 (2 CDs in a card folder)
Alpha Classics ALPHA 552

This original take on the Monteverdi 1610 Vespers will not be everybody’s cup of tea, if only because the standard parts of the Vespers that people expect to hear are not performed to a standard that we expect in HIP recordings today – the vocal singing in the psalms for example has sopranos singing with a particularly ‘French-style’ vibrato, and his somewhat wayward scorings – adding and subtracting instrumental colour to illuminate a word here and there is more reminiscent of orchestration as practised by Berlioz or Elgar. Indeed, I have not heard such re-imagined scoring – albeit with period instruments – since I heard Walter Göhr conduct his edition in Westminster Abbey in 1959. 

The main interest in this recording – and I have over a dozen recordings from the last two decades alone – must be in the juxtaposition of the supplementary material alongside Monteverdi’s. The opening Versicle and Response, set by Monteverdi to a re-worked version of the toccata that acts as a curtain-raiser to the Orfeo, is treated – as in that kind of modern cookery that presents a deconstructed rhubarb crumble for a pudding – as a series of elements. We have a rough falso-bordone version sung in a style that is a cross between how you might sing the naïve chant setings of Père Gouzes and the Dorset West Gallery tradition. Then follows the Toccata directly from the Orfeo, and finally the 1610 version with voices, strings and exotic wind, but no cornetti.  The faux-bourdon settings he takes from an anonymous xvii century manuscript preserved in the Bibliothèque Inguimbertine at Carpentras in Provence. When asked whether the Vespers could have been sung in this way in the period when they were composed, Bestion replies in the dialogue interview that is his apologia, ‘No, not at all! This is a complete re-imagining, adding in instrumental parts, and also singing the same sections of text twice’. This recording is a newly imagined event, turning the Monteverdi Vespers into the framework for a liturgical happening underscored by childhood memories of summer holidays with the family, staying in a monastery and being overwhelmed by eves-dropping on the great monastic chain of prayer.

So after a plainsong antiphon, sung by a single voice in a way that has echoes of Near-Eastern monody, and a faux-bourdon setting from the Carpentras library, Dixit Dominus by Monteverdi begins with strings, the voices coming in as if they were vocal entries in a Gibbons or Hooper verse anthem. ‘I set about rewriting the instrumental parts’, he says, ‘. . . to reflect all the diverse colours of the orchestra.’ These arrangements are fine in a way: a string ensemble decorates the bare bars of the bass’s Gloria at the end of Dixit like an Purcell viol fantasia on a single note; and sometimes he repeats a section that he likes, as in the triple section in the Gloria of Laudate pueri, which he runs instrumentally first before adding the voices – but the vocal style chosen for the Monteverdi elements in this production seems to owe little either to the rougher faux-bourdon style – sometimes pitched unbelievably low as in the setting of Laudate pueri – or to the ‘supple, slightly androgynous voice’ of Eugènie de Mey. Instead they seem firmly anchored in a slightly dated style of singing that uses quite a lot of modern techniques, like a good deal of vibrato in the upper voices.

Modern in conception too is the treatment of the foundation instruments. Harpsichord, lutes, harps and organ are added and subtracted for effect, providing a degree of distracting restlessness that steals attention from the setting of the text. Tempi are varied for no apparent reason – in Laetatus sum the running bass motif, repeated a number of time before the Gregorian intonation is heard (instrumentally at first), is taken at a faster pace than the much slower even-numbered verses: where has the concept of tactus gone?

I found the ritornello, trilli and all, for a pair of trombones that opens Duo Seraphim before the tenors take over equally odd, even if it no longer surprised me. Nisi goes at a cracking pace, helped by the rhythm section of ‘a thousand twangling instruments’ – though I think Christine Pluhar’s L’Arpeggiata does that kind of excitement better.

The second CD opens with a ricercar by Fresobaldi on Sancta Maria ora pro nobis to introduce Audi cælum, which has some of the best singing so far till cornetti roulades introduce ‘omnes’, and we are galloping off in a breakneck tripla. Benedicta es begins with single voices, till the other singers, and then the complete chorus angelorum catch the theme and pick up their cornets and sackbuts.

Lauda has just brass for the two SAB choirs with the tenors’ intonation at the start, and I found the proportions in the Sonata convincing musically, if unjustifiable theoretically. Ave maris stella has a free version of the plainsong for verses 2 and 3, and a home-embroidered counterpoint for the ‘solo’ verses. Never was there such a self-indulgent flattened 7th in the Amen.

By contrast, the Magnificat was almost straight, except for a mesmerising triple echo in the Gloria. At last I began to see what Bestion was aiming for, though as readers who have persevered thus far will have gathered, it’s not the Monteverdi Vespro of 1610.

If you are anything like me, you will be intrigued and repelled in equal measure. So try and listen to a few tracks before you buy: it’s not exactly what it says on the tin!

David Stancliffe

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