It is the dream of many a recitalist to excel in French melodies. This is a difficult area for non-French speaking singers to break into: many try too hard to be artistic and come away sounding precious, while a bold few throw stylistic considerations carelessly to the wind. McNair belongs to the first group, though that does not mean there is no pleasure to be had from this well-chosen programme of her ‘reveries’. With Roger Vignoles on hand to provide flowing accompaniments, she has an experienced guide to the repertoire; and her French is always willing, even where it is clearly not native (the fast word-play of “Reine des mouettes” in Poulenc’s Metamorphoses uncovers a few foreign vowel sounds).
What is it that makes the disc seductive? The answer is simple: a dream of a voice, which can turn heavenly sounds into reality. Even where she fails to pin down the character of certain songs, as in the elusive emotions of Debussy’s Ariettes oubliees, there is a beauty to spare. In the second song, “Il pleure dans mon coeur”, the tears in Verlaine’s poem tempt her into becoming lachrymose, but the crucial line – “Ce deuil est sans raison” – is phrased so exquisitely, you very nearly forgive her. Both the Bizet and Faure groups have been thoughtfully selected to show off her lambent soprano in long, graceful lines, notably in Bizet’s Pastel.
The Messiaen melodies have not often been recorded and make a welcome addition to the catalogue. McNair is more artful in them than Michele Command in her EMI Messiaen set, a little too much the wide-eyed girl to Command’s mature observer of nature, but it is McNair who captures the Messiaen-like radiance of tone: her “O Jesus, benissez la!” in the third song shines with vocal purity. The exemplary Philips recording also helps here, revealing the piano part as a blaze of colour. In the Poulenc, McNair is again tempted into cosseting the music. Sensuous it may be, but “C’est ainsi que tu es” (the third of the Metamorphoses) goes better without her sweet fondling. Among non-French singers, Dame Felicity Lott manages without self-indulgence and also sings in whole sentences, rather than being waylaid by individual phrases.
Specialist collectors of French melodies will welcome the rarer songs here, while looking elsewhere – to Bernac in the Poulenc (EMI, 4/93), perhaps to Danco in the Debussy (Decca) – for the rest. Other listeners, once they have heard the effortless climax to Debussy’s “L’ombre des arbres” or the rippling legato of Faure’s Au bord de l’eau may decide that McNair’s vocal beauty is enough for them.'