Beware the pen of a critic. When in 1720 an arrangement of Domenico Scarlatti’s 1714 opera Amor d’un’Ombra e Gelosia d’un’aura arrived at the King’s Theatre, Haymarket, Charles Burney’s pen was gently damning. “Though there were many new pleasing passages and effects”, proclaimed London’s esteemed writer on all things musical, “those acquainted with the original and happy freaks of this composer in his harpsichord music, would be surprised at the sobriety and almost dullness of the songs”; and over the ensuing centuries, critical opinion has largely persisted with the line that Scarlatti’s best work is to be found not among his vocal or instrumental works, but instead among the 555 harpsichord sonatas he wrote for the Portuguese Queen of Spain, María Bárbara. Now though, here is a multi-genre Scarlatti programme from Bertrand Cuiller and his period instrument ensemble Le Caravansérail, its aim to enable the listener to reach his or her own conclusion as to Scarlatti’s wider worth. Although with repertoire and performances as fine as these, it’s perfectly clear which side Cuiller wants us to come down upon. Not least he opens with a piece of shameless wooing: the famous Sonata in G major, K. 144, but heard not on harpsichord but instead from harpist from Bérengère Sardin in a performance of melting warm fragility and hope-filled nobility. Then with that still ringing in your ears comes one of the few surviving examples of Scarlatti’s sacred music, the Stabat Mater in C minor with its rich, ten-voice texture supported by basso continuo accompaniment alone; and instantly your ears are locking on to that continuo section’s harp-reminiscent archlute, and thus becoming extra-alive to the accompaniment’s poeticism, even as the clear-toned voices unfurl over it and entwine around each other, themselves bringing definition and lucidity to even the score’s most lavishly contrapuntal vocal writing. Onwards and there’s a D minor instrumental feast: violinist Leila Schayegh’s sombre, expressive reading of the Sonata, K. 90, one of a few harpsichord sonatas that appears to present the option of choosing a solo instrument on the melodic line; then, following a nimbly urgent ensemble reading of Charles Avison’s “concerto grosso” transcription of another harpsichord sonata, Cuiller himself bringing gossamer-weight lyricism to Harpsichord Sonata, K. 213. As for the secular vocal works, the numbers from Amor d’un’Ombra e Gelosia d’un’aura more than hold their own here, thanks to soprano Emmanuelle de Negri and countertenor Paul-Antoine Bénos-Djian’s committed performances, while an album highlight is the lilting melancholic expression brought by de Negri to ”Pur nel sonno almen tal’ora vien colei” from the Cantata “Pur nel sonno almen” – composed to a Metastasio poem that appears to have been given to Scarlatti by star countertenor Farinelli, and thus inevitably sounding like a composer inspired to give his best. In short, in the case of Cuiller versus Burney, it’s a win for Cuiller. Also, indeed, for Scarlatti. © Charlotte Gardner/Qobuz

“Unprecedented” is the right word to sum up this album entirely devoted to John Field's Nocturnes. Unprecedented because it is the first recording by Florent Albrecht, an extra-terrestrial of the pianoforte, who trained late in life after a first career in the luxury goods industry. After graduating from the Conservatoire of Geneva in 2018 and laureate of the Royaumont Foundation the same year, the French pianist has already performed at the Paris Opera and the Juilliard School, among others. An unprecedented album, as it features the world premiere of Nocturne in B flat major, posthumous Op.142, a score exhumed from the shelves of the St Petersburg library by Florent Albrecht. For the occasion, Qobuz presents this original and enchanting album exclusively for five weeks.The nocturne, a form made popular by Chopin, emerged at a time in the history of music when technical improvements in keyboard instruments enabled them to rival the expressiveness of the human voice. We do not know if it is John Field's writing talent or Florent Albrecht's fluid and airy playing—it is probably a subtle mixture of the two—but we come away from listening being convinced that the piano is the sole instrument capable of expressing the emotions of the romantic soul. The musician opts for a phrasing that is both clear and supple, perfectly suited to his instrument (a Carlo Meglio from 1826), whose rounded and slightly trembling timbre, sometimes close to a cimbalom, acts like a soothing balm for the soul. A truly calming interlude. © Pierre Lamy/Qobuz

The music on this album takes a little bit of explanation that the words "Concerti Grossi After Scarlatti" does not fully supply. These are not really arrangements or orchestrations of keyboard sonatas by Domenico Scarlatti, even though they are sometimes described that way. Instead, as the booklet notes by Kai-Hinrich Müller put it here, this "is music by Avison and Scarlatti simultaneously" (or at least, one might say, sequentially). The basic source material is the set of Essercizii (Exercises) published by Scarlatti in England in 1739. These were among the few sonatas of Scarlatti that were internationally known during the composer's lifetime; Charles Burney remarked that "everyone played, or at least tried to play, Scarlatti's Essercizii." Enter English composer Charles Avison, who attempted to fill an obvious market niche by arranging them for a small orchestra. The keyboard pieces contain basically Italianate material, with loud-soft contrasts and registral blocks; there is no question of trying to orchestrate some of the wilder harmonic experiments or Spanish effects of some of Scarlatti's sonatas. But they are not "concertos" for keyboard, and there are not enough slow ones to make up three-movement concertos. Avison reworked the melodic material into orchestral-suitable shapes, pulled in material from other sonatas (some of them unknown), and may have written some slow movements to match outer-movement pairs. In short, what you hear is sort of an adaptation of Scarlatti, and in places almost a fantasy. You could just listen to concertos by Vivaldi or Sammartini instead, but the whole thing is sufficiently unusual to be interesting in itself, and the veteran Concerto Köln delivers lively, idiomatic performances. Recommended for Baroque enthusiasts.© TiVo