Good things apparently do come in pairs. Having so recently praised the Orlando Consort’s survey of sacred music from the time of the Great Schism (Metronome, 11/95), I now find myself with an equally glorious recital devoted to that noblest form (in every sense) of its secular music. The ballade was meant to honour the dukes and counts who did so much to foster the fine arts while war, famine and plague raged round them. Their musical proteges were by all accounts a slightly surreal bunch, dedicated seekers-out of weirdness, addicted to the bottle – possibly even to hashish. Small wonder that so much of their music seems hopelessly capricious on the page. Crawford Young’s special achievement is to demonstrate what many enthusiasts of Ars subtilior have felt all along. In performance, that wilful strangeness can suddenly come across with astonishing naturalness: all it takes is the right singers, and here they are.
Or perhaps that last sentence should read: “here she is”. It is no slight on the other members of the Ferrara Ensemble to say that the mezzo-soprano, Lena Susanne Norin, steals the show. Her singing can only be described as luscious. True, the quality of these performances is partly a matter of direction. Tempo is of the first importance because it determines the specific gravity of the dissonances. Pitched too slow, the phrases are weighed down by them; too fast, and the dissonances are trivialized. Beyond that, however, the sensitivity to these details is down to Norin herself. This fierce-looking music, once tamed, becomes almost unbelievably sensuous. The tone of the accompanying string instruments is perfectly judged, the sound-recording outstanding – warm and glowing.
Further comment is necessary on a more general matter. The presentation of ballades is a tricky business: to perform all three stanzas can take well over ten minutes. In the past, singers have tended to confine themselves to just one or two stanzas. That has the advantage of fitting more music into a recital, but aesthetically it makes as much sense as trimming the tail of a peacock. Young gives all three stanzas of the poem wherever possible, and in so doing he restores the ballade’s length, weight, complexity, in a word, the heroic intent that is the form’s very raison d’etre. If that means fewer pieces per disc, may I suggest two possible remedies: a slightly more generous programme; better still, let Arcana live up to their name and allow us another magnificent instalment. Senleches, Cuvelier, Solage... can we please have some more?'