Wigmore Hall’s Fauré Song Gala could have been subtitled “An Evening with Stéphane Degout and Friends”. Not only did Lyon’s favourite son get to sing more songs than anyone else (14, including the whole of L’Horizon chimérique Op.118 at the top of the bill), he also pulled out the plums from Fauré’s abundant orchard of mélodies. The baritone sang the hits – Après un rêve, Les Berceaux, Clair de lune, Mandoline – and rendered them in a voice of open-throated velvet and an expressive subtlety to die for. I could have listened to him all evening.
Which is not to denigrate his distinguished compatriot Véronique Gens, whose every utterance shone with clarity, beauty and intelligence. The French pair’s duet in the Op.10 Victor Hugo setting Puisqu’ici-bas was a high point of a concert of heavenly length that grouped songs from the composer’s early, middle and later years into three mini-recitals, with a complete performance of La Bonne Chanson as a post-interval bonus. Wherever she found herself in Fauré’s ever-evolving style, Gens gave matchless readings. From Op.4 (Lydia) to Op.95 (Paradis from La Chanson d’Ève) her interpretations were a masterclass in diction and musical expression. The soprano's rendition of the unforgettable Leconte de Lisle setting Les Roses d’Ispahan was rapt; she seemed to melt into the song.
Fauré was the finest of French songwriters; his melodic gifts and uncanny responsiveness to poetic texts resulted in near-perfect miniatures. Imagine his cherished Requiem distilled down to a concentrate and there you have a song like Tristesse or C’est l’extase. Unsurprisingly, many of his mélodies are once heard, never forgotten, while others, notably his late-flowering rarities, are elusive in their beauty and all the more precious for it. Each one, though, requires two talents: a singer of artless beauty and a pianist both dextrous and delicate.
The latter imperative was doubly met in this gala recital, with Susan Manoff and Julius Drake busily cox-and-boxing at the keyboard, their songs allocated apparently at random (although Manoff seldom two-timed her regular recital partner Véronique Gens) and both playing with secure, idiomatic familiarity. Manoff had élan, her hands flying in a flourish above the keys, while Drake was equally effective in intense readings marked less by physicality. The two played with relish and a generosity of spirit both to their singers and to each other.
Two non-French artists of the younger generation completed the vocal line-up. Laurence Kisby’s light tenor was honeyed in Barcarolle, richer in the low-lying Dans la forêt de septembre (a song that seemed better suited to his delightful timbre) but elsewhere his connection to Fauré’s response to verse was sometimes undercooked. As for the talented Fleur Barron, she delivered Au bord de l’eau and Une sainte en son auréole, the opening song of La Bonne Chanson, with grace and feeling. If her mezzo-soprano felt too heavy for Fauré (she has sung a lot of Mahler lately, a composer for whom her voice is ideal) and diction was hard to follow without reference to the text, her contributions were nonetheless poised and sensitive.