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When conductor William Christie founded Les Arts Florissants nearly half a century ago, he lit the fuse on a flowering – florissants is the mot juste – of French Baroque choral singing which has now become a global industry. Christie’s ensemble has many imitators, but none have its wonderful refinement of sound; branching out into the Italian and English Baroque repertoires, it has recorded performances of Monteverdi and Purcell which have definitive authority.
The ensemble took its title from an opera of the same name by Marc-Antoine Charpentier (1645-1704), a prolific French composer whose works are these days overshadowed by those of his younger fellow-countryman, Jean-Philippe Rameau. Charpentier now has a curious claim to fame, in that one of his rondos is the fanfare that prefaces broadcasts of the Eurovision network, but in his time he was celebrated for his religious music. And it’s that music which – returning to their roots – Christie’s ensemble offered at the Barbican, in the shape of three rarely-performed Christmas compositions.
The most charming of these was a little playlet about the nativity in which humour replaces the usual hushed reverence. Speculating on the significance of an unexpected baby which has suddenly materialised, one woman observes that “by some mystery unknown to us, this virgin mother has borne him a child although he is not the father”.
“And is Joseph not jealous?” asks another woman. “It is true,” replies the first, “that when he suspected that Mary was pregnant, he considered leaving so virtuous a bride”. But then an angel had appeared, telling him to hold back: “Let not a hateful divorce break the bonds of your holy marriage. Mary is both mother and virgin.”
What made this work so exquisite was the winning way it was led by Julie Roset, a young soprano with a gleaming sound, and by Nicholas Scott, a young British tenor with a marvellously supple expressiveness.
And the sound-world which Les Arts Florissants flawlessly maintained throughout the evening was both magical and intensely French. The singing style in 17th-century Paris was distinguished by a very particular rule: that every melodic line should have what musicologists call a “feminine ending”, meaning that – in contrast to the English style – the stress must fall on the penultimate note, with the final one decorated with a short trill.
No praise could be too high for the precision and beauty of this ensemble’s performance, with many singers stepping out as soloists, and with a Christmas warmth generated by strings and flutes. Those curious to hear them should dip into their massive discography.
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