The manner of these performances suggests – and probably‚ as far as is possible in this material world‚ achieves – a certain kind of ideal in which anything so physical as the vocal cords or so external in its manifestation as vocal resonance is refined out of existence. Song (or at any rate song such as Gurney’s) is thus a kind of private and personal channel into the minds of composer‚ poet and listener. The singer‚ as intimately as can be‚ acts as a medium‚ and the pianist unobtrusively interprets notes as feelings. Perhaps the idea appeals: I certainly don’t want to rubbish it‚ though an impulse of Blimpish philistinism sometimes urges a cry of ‘Sing up‚ man!’. Gurney himself is a difficult subject‚ for one is so disconsolately aware of his talents‚ the depth of his civilised nature‚ in the dreadful context of war and a blighted life‚ that one sits sometimes in an agony of restraint‚ secretly wishing that he would ‘put some life into it’. He can do‚ and does in the happily syncopated Under the greenwood tree and the passionately earthy I will go with my father a­ploughing. But so much more seems confined to a world of half­lights and cautiously measured movement. Paul Agnew’s singing reflects this‚ but in a mirror which reduces the range of coloration still further. Notes are held without vibrancy till near the very end when there momentarily emerges an uneven vibrato; there is also much of that swell­pedal manner on individual notes‚ which deprives the line of a true legato. Yet he impresses as a responsive artist‚ and certainly Julius Drake contributes with special skill so as to seek out the life of the songs while respecting appropriately restrictive boundaries.