An evening of song from La Belle Époque with Veronique Gens

It feels like a miniature miracle hearing the great soprano Véronique Gens singing in, of all places, the tiny church of Prestonkirk deep in the countryside east of Edinburgh. But miniature miracles are what East Lothian’s Lammermuir Festival seems to specialise in. Repeatedly they present concerts featuring top rank artists in implausible venues, so that every September the union of great music and beautiful locations creates a peculiarly special atmosphere in their events. 

Miracle or not, there she stood, alongside pianist Joseph Middleton, singing a programme of French chansons of the Belle Époque, a neat choice of repertoire that played to her strengths both in terms of articulation and the plenitude of her voice. Hers is a gorgeously rich soprano, luxurious and ripe; an instrument big enough to fill the opera houses of Europe but which she managed to shade down expertly so as to fit the little venue snugly. That shading did mean the voice lost a tiny bit of its refulgence, however, and most of the recital carried a feeling that she was holding back, where in a different setting the music would gladly have required her to let fly to exhilarating effect.

As it turned out, though, there wasn’t much exhilaration in this concert. What we got instead was 70 minutes of interior feeling and suave refinement. So much song of this period relies on suggestions and raised eyebrows rather than overt expressions of emotion, and Gens understands that very well, particularly in the Chausson and Fauré songs which she sang with hints of love deferred or pleasure held at bay, investing every syllable with deep meaning. Moreover, Middleton’s playing was the perfect accompaniment throughout, flirtatious in Gounod’s Où voulez-vous aller? or fluttering delicately for the butterflies of Chausson’s Les Papillons. His piano line at the end of Fauré’s Le Papillon et la fleur did such a convincing impression of a bee buzzing off that it made Gens break into a chuckle. 

Rich as were the treasures on offer, however, it was the Reynaldo Hahn songs that offered the most reward and where the performers sounded most happy. Many of Hahn’s songs are more winningly straightforward in their musical communication, putting to one side the sense of refined suspension in favour of more musical and emotional directness. That doesn’t make them naïve, however. Trois Jours de vendange created a disarming journey into sorrow, both Middleton’s piano line and Gens’ voice darkening through the journey from love to loss, and the gently throbbing piano line of Lydé created a foundation from which Gens’ soprano could take airborne flight, the contrast producing something unique that only singing can manage. Their final song, Le Printemps, was full of animated passion and surging bliss, a reminder that, in this repertoire, even the simple joys of nature seem to hint that sensual pleasures are never far away.