From the Lebrecht Album of the Week:
There is a line of beauty that runs through French vocal music, from Debussy to Messiaen to Boulez, which exists to the exclusion of all else. When you listen, it sounds as if no other French songs exist – no Ravel, no Poulenc, no Jacques Brel – nothing but this ethereal space in which each consonant is placed with aesthetic precision, like raspberries in a patisserie, or boules in a town square. Singing in this genre can sound precious and showy. Not on this album, however….
Read on here.
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