Rather as with Dowland’s Lachrymae, it makes little sense but 
                  enervating listening to listen to Field’s Nocturnes all in one 
                  go, even (or especially) in fine performances. The Lachrymae 
                  inhabit a continually sorrowing world of D major; Field sets 
                  himself no such limitations, but frequently comes up against 
                  an inability, whatever the key, to transcend a similarly melancholy 
                  form. Alas for him, we have Chopin’s example from 30 years later 
                  to show us it can be done. 
                 
                
That Field was a prodigious melodist there 
                  is ample demonstration: invidious to pick out a tune when they 
                  are nearly all so delightful, but the ease of no.8 gives me 
                  particular pleasure. Roberte Mamou shapes them with grace, and 
                  is particularly adept at dynamic shading within a melody to 
                  give it direction, especially towards its end. 
                
 
                
With sensitive pedalling she is capable of 
                  conjuring an appealing, bell-like sonority, as in the conclusion 
                  to the Sixth and at the start of the Seventh: here, however, 
                  the left hand touches in the upbeat figurations rather indistinctly. 
                  And there lies my principal objection: the left hand is consistently 
                  heavy, most noticeably in those nocturnes which already have 
                  a dramatic and not merely accompanimental role, like nos.9 and 
                  14. A fatal unevenness of accompanying figuration creeps into 
                  no.11; elsewhere rubato is applied, never grotesquely, but quite 
                  liberally. 
                
 
                
A pedestrian trill in the coda of no.14 harshly 
                  reveals piano action at the top of the keyboard: in fact the 
                  instrument often sounds more like a fortepiano. Partly this 
                  can be attributed to Mamou’s praiseworthy intentions to give 
                  Field an appropriately intimate soundworld; partly to over-close 
                  miking; and, I’m afraid, partly to Mamou’s disinclination or 
                  inability to make more of her material. John O’Conor and Benjamin 
                  Frith show it can be done but what is on offer here is all too 
                  often superior salon select. 
                
 
                
No one who already has O’Conor’s set on Telarc 
                  will need to supplement their collection with Mamou, and for 
                  those who have yet to discover Field’s charm, there is no reason 
                  for them to start with this disc. 
                
 
                 
                
Peter Quantrill