Piau, Les Paladins, Correas, Wigmore Hall

2014 is the 250^th anniversary of the death of Jean-Philippe Rameau, France’s baroque giant and maverick. To say that the UK celebrations have been muted is to put in generously, reconfirming a national trend that has long sidelined this repertoire in favour of more familiar Italian and German contemporaries. So it was especially good to see the Wigmore Hall full for an anniversary concert from instrumental ensemble Les Paladins and soprano Sandrine Piau.

But, emerging back out onto Wigmore Street after barely more than an hour of performance, I found myself baffled. Was this brief evening of musical bonbons designed to avoid scaring people? If so, then it will certainly have succeeded – there was nothing in the melodious arias and dance interludes to frighten even the most reactionary Handelian. Was it intended to be a spontaneous and off-the-cuff sort of affair, eschewing a heavy programme in favour of the musical equivalent of a Gallic shrug of  je ne sais quoi? If so, then the unnecessary and protracted bouts of tuning and pauses for applause between every three-minute number may have sabotaged the lightness somewhat.

Piau is unbeatable, the absolute best, in this repertoire

What there was of the concert was very good indeed, making it all the harder to accept this timid tribute in place of what might have been. Piau is unbeatable, the absolute best, in this repertoire, taking unyielding architectural phrases and melting them into implausible melodies, shading each note with absolute precision of both tone and emotion. In a series of amuse-bouche arias she gave us poised despair ("Tristes apprêts", from Castor et Pollux), coloratura brilliance ("Brillez, astres nouveaux", also from Castor) and all-out musical farce, complete with harp-playing and spoken dialogue ("Formons les plus brillants" from Platée). Les Paladins’ "Je vole, amour" gave us perhaps the best chance to appreciate this small, supple voice, embellishing lines in glorious competition with the flute, and shocking with sudden simplicity and sweetness.

It’s unusual to see a group of this size conducted, but Jérôme Correas kept things energised and idiomatic, if occasionally favouring some rather polite tempos. Dances from  Les Surprises de l’Amour climaxed in a riotous tambourin and throwaway contredanse, bright with piccolos and sardonic bassoon, while the opener – the Overture from Les Indes Galantes – had a subversive swing concealed underneath its genteel formality.

Addressing the audience briefly, Correas (pictured right) proved himself articulate and funny. How much more satisfying would it have been to have blended concert and lecture, to have had this engaging expert take us through a bit of biography and history, giving a context pieces that only come into their own with a little musical and dramatic background, rather than a short evening of inscrutable morsels. Failing that, I’d have settled for just a little more continuity of programming – a dramatic arc of number stitched together into some kind of narrative – to avoid the nervy stop-start rhythms of applause after every 3-minute piece.

According to Les Arts Florissants’ William Christie, Glyndebourne has no plans to return to French baroque opera any time soon. It’s a blow, particularly this year, and one that seems sadly representative of a wider attitude. What a shame then that this opportunity for some gentle musical evangelism wasn’t taken up with just a little more imagination. As a concert, this was entertaining and enjoyable; as a 250^th anniversary tribute to one of baroque’s great revolutionaries, it was lacking.