Although Jacques Brel's modern reputation rests on the seemingly endless stream of future classics he tossed out in his capacity as a songwriter, acclaim during his lifetime was equally granted to his live performances. Onstage, as surviving footage amply shows, he was a dynamo of expression, emotion, and energy, imbibing every lyric with an intensity that such phrases as "body language," "facial expressions," and "stage presence" simply cannot begin to explain. It was a smart move indeed, then, for him to wrap up his Phillips label deal with a live album, recorded at the fabled Paris Olympia in October 1961, with piano accompaniment from arranger Francois Rauber and occasional songwriter Gerard Jouannest, and an orchestra conducted by Daniel Janin. The 15 songs include a number with which the audience might not even have been familiar -- new material scheduled for Brel's next few EPs included "Les Bourgeois," "La Statue," "Zangra," and "Madeleine." All, however, are greeted with enthusiasm -- one of Brel's greatest talents, and the concert environment only amplified it, was his ability to turn total strangers into the closest friends, and friends, of course, into lovers -- an exuberant "Les Flamandes," a jovial "Marieke," a whirling "La Valse a Mille Temps." Effortlessly, Brel holds the audience's emotions in his hand. A playful "Les Paumes Du Petit Matin" is high comedy, as Brel toys with both lyrics and vocal sounds; "Ne Me Quitte Pas," on the other hand, reduces a vast auditorium to the silence of the grave, until even the strings behind it sound like trespassers on the singer's soul. "Le Moribund" jerks the dreamers back to wakefulness, and one cannot help but wonder whether any of the so painfully earnest Anglo-American interpreters of this song could ever even imagine the exuberance with which Brel imbibes it. Joy, fun, seasons in the sun -- as the song speeds toward its conclusion, it almost sounds like Brel has started tap-dancing, so unrestrainedly buoyant is his delivery. The album closes with "Quand on N'a Que L'Amour," of course. It opens slowly, gently, Brel alone with his acoustic guitar and sounding almost uncertain as he stutters out the lyrics. As the band comes in behind him, however, his confidence returns, until the performance explodes with the crowd and, as Brel leaves the stage, the horns play out the refrain. It must have been a marvelous night; it remains a tremendous LP.© Dave Thompson /TiVo

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Hector Berlioz's songs are certainly the most overlooked area of his output, even though they demonstrate no less color, eccentricity, or Romantic boldness than his work in other genres. Alpha Productions' Hector Berlioz: La Belle Voyageuse collects 15 of Berlioz's songs and submits them to a period treatment, or at least to a period instrument, namely an original 1836 square piano manufactured by Ignace Pleyel. In some cases Berlioz provides for optional, extra voices to complement the lead, resulting in a pseudo-part song-like texture. In such cases, bass baritone Jerôme Correas is joined by three tenors and a second baritone to fill out the extra parts. He is also partnered by horn player Claude Maury and cellist Christophe Coin when additional parts for instruments are required. Correas is a good French baritone with a nice, pear-shaped approach to vowels and a sometimes warm personality, although in a fair amount of instances he seems a bit too preoccupied with the business of singing to really project it. His main partner in this project is pianist Arthur Schoonderwoerd, and it is his participation, rather than the music he is making, that we mostly hear. The whole recording has a weak low end, and the singer is mixed a bit too far forward, with the piano barely audible most of the time. When it can be heard, the Pleyel has a charming, tinkling sound very close to that of the pianos you hear accompanying European singers on very early phonograph recordings from around 1900. The weak bass robs the sonority of the piano in the most interesting part of its range, the lower registers. Despite the pedigree of the extra instrumentalists, the instrumental obbligati are cheesy -- it has probably been 80 years since musicians have really known how to present parlor music for voice, piano, and another instrument and not have it come off like showboating. The concluding Chant Sacré, which calls for an added soprano and mezzo, really comes off beautifully, as the near choral texture makes it so one doesn't miss the sound of the piano. Hector Berlioz: La Belle Voyageuse, therefore, is a mixed bag with some very good things included. But it is better overall if you don't particularly like accompanists.© TiVo

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