It is characteristic of the Ars Subtilior repertory that its supposed eccentricity in the matter of notational exuberance has given rise to equally eccentric interpretations (let’s call it ‘the X-factor’). One need only recall the incursions of such groups as Mala Punica, with their long-drawn-out improvisations, or the Ferrara Ensemble’s other-worldly sound-image (I once described it as “sub-aquatic”), or again, Paul van Nevel’s provocatively slow tempos. Whatever the individual merits of these approaches, the music’s fascination may be gauged by the fact that each of these ensembles has devoted several discs to it. This, by contrast, is Philip Pickett’s first, and he aims at a broad coverage of the many composers whose names have come down to us (no single individual has more than one song to his credit here). Indeed, I can think of few anthologies that extract so much variety from a repertory which is, on the whole, remarkably homogeneous.
The New London Consort are, as usual, fronted by Catherine Bott, whose gift for mimicry, well remembered from the anthology devoted to Oswald von Wolkenstein (L’Oiseau-Lyre, 1/97) is put to good use in character-pieces like A l’arme, a l’arme, He, tres doulz roussignol or Par maintes foys. Elsewhere she delivers mostly relaxed, comfortable renditions of the rhythmically complex pieces – Le greygnour bien, for example; however, in this piece as in certain others, the sense of the long phrase is not so clearly defined as in the Ferrara Ensemble’s recordings (which is ironic, since the latter tend to far slower tempos). On the other hand, the identity of individual lines is very clearly grasped, thanks to the choice of accompanying instruments that invariably produces transparent readings. In effect, Pickett offers a compromise between the approaches of Mala Punica and the Ferrara Ensemble: like the former he opts for a variegated use of instruments – not for him the vocalized performances advocated for this repertory by Christopher Page; but like the latter he remains as faithful as possible to the letter of the notation. What is specific to Pickett’s approach is the drama inherent in the lone voice negotiating its way through the rhythmic thickets thrown in its way by the instruments (try the pyrotechnics in Hasprois’s Ma doulce amour). Having attended the Consort’s live performances of this repertory, I can attest to the excitement of that approach, though it seems rather muted on this particular disc. If the X-factor is what you’re after, you may catch yourself thinking that Pickett’s rivals have out-foxed him.'