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Fanfare Magazine: 43:2 (11-12/2019) 
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Resonus
RES10236



Code-barres / Barcode : 5060262791431

 
Reviewer: Bertil van Boer
 

For composers living in France during the first half of the 18th century, there must have been considerable pressure to live up to the keyboard pieces or books published by François Couperin (also reviewed in this issue). These were intellectual exercises, most of them, with the intent of providing a civilized society with a set of social music that demonstrated ability, as well as contained allusions to various things. These books were filled with titled works, generally with the notion that the performers would delight in the subtle twists and turns, an effort that, if successful, would earn them a reputation both for their theoretical skill as well as their popular content. One can be reminded of Jean-Philippe Rameau, whose Pièces de clavecin from 1724 onwards established him as one of the foremost followers or successors to the aging Couperin. Few, however, have probably ever heard of Joseph-Nicholas-Pancrace Royer (1703–1755). The son of a Savoy military man, he came to Paris at an early age, where he first began a career as an administrator at the Opéra, and then in 1748 led the famed Concerts spirituels. He also taught members of the court of Louis XV, and he was known primarily for his various theater works, especially the ballets de cour. Given his stature in Paris as a musician, he was probably destined to publish this volume of pieces, meant mainly for the well-heeled amateurs of the time.
 

One oddity is that he uses no fewer than six different clefs, possibly to add an additional challenge to his would-be performers. The movements are titled, giving them a slightly old-fashioned, Couperinesque feel. They range in style from simple and naïve, such as “La bagatelle,” which he then turns into a minor key variation entitled “suite.” “Le vertigo” is a rondeau that teeters and totters about various keys, suddenly falling precipitously down a scale or arpeggio. Nothing is stable, either melodically or harmonically, lending it a sort of air of a fantasy. There is even a rather manic moment in which the keyboard is mechanically pounded, but ending in a whirling froth. “Le Zaïde” is a tender and quite languid piece, clearly a characterization based upon some stage persona. The set ends with a Scythian march, a harmonically bizarre movement that wanders about with some chromatic passagework and a monotonous main theme. A final flourish that stops abruptly and with swishing patterns returns back to the mincing main theme.
 

The harpsichord is a modern copy by Andrew Garlick of a 1749 Goujon, just the sort of instrument that would have been used in Paris. The sound is robust and pointed, and harpsichordist Mie Hayashi does an absolutely outstanding job of performance. She knows instinctively how to phrase the often gnarly passagework that Royer demands, making it exciting and musical, rather than just an intellectual exercise. There is a base canard that all French harpsichord music after the death of Couperin was nothing but a pale imitation. This fine recording should put that idea to rest. Highly recommended.

 


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