‘A bottle in the sea’: the note­writer’s phrase makes one wonder afresh where the recording has been all this time. There must be a story to tell‚ and I wish the notes had told it. In fact there is a whole lot one would have liked to learn‚ including something more about members of the cast. The principal interest there‚ of course‚ is in Germaine Cernay‚ the mezzo whose fine voice was best known on records outside France in Dalila’s ‘Mon coeur s’ouvre’ with Georges Thill and the title­role of an abridged Mignon with André D’Arkor. She was a highly accomplished‚ versatile singer‚ whose merits (some limitations also) have become clearer as more has come to light in recent years. She died at the age of 43 (as old as the century)‚ on the point‚ or so we understood‚ of entering a convent; the notes refer to this as her ‘swansong’‚ saying that she was already a sick woman‚ ‘her mystical soul so remote from Mérimée’s trollop’ (my translation) and a visible lameness seeming to have debarred her from stage­work. She doesn’t sound like one of nature’s Carmens by temperament‚ but that may be why the conductor chose her. Again according to the notes‚ he had strong ideas about the performance of Carmen‚ with a particular abhorrence of a ‘devastating hysteria’ taking possession of the protagonists in the final scene. Cernay’s characterisation‚ vocal and histrionic‚ is of a sensible woman‚ purposeful and businesslike‚ whose ‘frappe­moi donc ou laisse­moi passer’ are equally practical suggestions. Inghelbrecht himself is more of a puzzle‚ though he seems to have had a reason for everything. His opening prelude and chorus are very slow – but not typical of the performance as a whole. He makes what were fairly standard cuts but insists on spoken dialogue‚ recognising the ‘vraie Carmen opéra comique’. The singers do credit to his conception. All are very French‚ with a bright­toned Micaëla‚ a José who sings his part in the first duet with exemplary grace‚ and a well­mannered high baritone for Escamillo. Some of the names may be hesitantly familiar (Lovano‚ for instance‚ through his parts in Ansermet’s L’enfant et les sortilèges). Oddly‚ the best known is the Remendado‚ Jean Planel‚ long remembered for his prize­winning solo from L’enfance du Christ. It sounds like a genuine company production‚ all thoroughly committed and idiomatic. The recorded sound is another matter‚ distinctly ‘period’ and sometimes rather battered‚ yet vivid too. The inclusion of the L’Arlésienne suite is a doubtful bonus; that of the Agnus Dei sung in a modern recording by a Corsican tenor Carlo Ciabrini a puzzling one. Never mind. Let’s be glad the bottle has reached land‚ its contents so well preserved.