Judith Weir is "the Gabriel Garcia 
                Márques of song", writes 
                Ian Burnside. She's probably the finest 
                story-teller among British composers, 
                for her gift is to write intriguing 
                miniatures that expand outwards into 
                vistas accessible only in the imagination. 
                For example, "On buying a Horse" 
                gives seemingly straightforward advice 
                about what to look for when buying a 
                horse. If its markings are wrong "tear 
                off his hide and feed him to the crows". 
                But why and why such savagery? Weir 
                compounds the mystery by fragmenting 
                the repeat of this striking phrase, 
                when, after the words, "feed him 
                to the 
", she jumbles dislocated 
                words "Foot, feet, nose" before 
                returning to the obvious "crows". 
                It's as if the song fragments before 
                your ears. It's highly disturbing and 
                might be vividly expressed in film. 
                
                An even better example is In the lovely 
                village of Nevesinje from the three 
                Songs from the Exotic. Of the three 
                short songs that make up this small 
                group, it is outstanding because it's 
                so full of drama and mystery. Why is 
                the village of Nevesinje so lovely? 
                Bucolic the song is not because it's 
                about a violent curse following what 
                appears to have been a murder. The Serbian 
                names and place names are pronounced 
                very arcane. The curse, which has something 
                to do with changing sex, is sent in 
                a letter to Bey Pivlyanahin, who receives 
                it and starts to dictate a reply. But 
                then the song ends, leaving us hanging, 
                at a critical moment. Almost equally 
                well known is The Romance of Count Arnaldos, 
                set to a 15th/16th century Spanish text. 
                The Count spies, quite by chance, a 
                ship at sea, whose commander can sing 
                the winds calm. The sailor tells him 
                that he only tells the secret to those 
                who sail away with him. 
                The songs in Scotch Minstrelsy may not 
                have that same under-current, pulling 
                them towards distant, unknown territory. 
                Nonetheless, Weir intuits the fey beneath 
                the dour exterior of Scottish ballads. 
                Two nice middle class ladies build a 
                bower in the open air to escape the 
                plague, but it gets them anyway. Bonny 
                James Campbell goes out on his horse, 
                but it returns without him. Similarly, 
                King Harald's Saga is a quirky update 
                on ancient sagas, mired as they are 
                in myth and mystery. It's interesting 
                because it's an early example of Weir's 
                work in music-theatre. She's gone on 
                to become one of the foremost, and most 
                idiosyncratic British opera composers, 
                her Blond Eckbert being very highly 
                regarded. King Harald's Saga, however, 
                is a self-contained star turn. It's 
                a one singer music-drama which places 
                huge demands on the solo singer. Bickley 
                demonstrates her acting as well as her 
                singing skills. Moreover, the songs 
                are technically demanding, stretching 
                Bickley to feats of technical agility.
                The Voice of Desire is the most recent 
                cycle in this set, written only in 2003 
                for Alice Coote, a singer with a strong 
                personality and distinctive voice to 
                match. It's also in many ways the most 
                innovative of all the pieces on this 
                recording. The piano part is more dominant, 
                struggling against the voice and making 
                it respond more vigorously. It's also 
                more integrated musically and texturally, 
                and needs, more than the other cycles, 
                to be understood as a single unit. Mysteries 
                now aren't something beyond distant 
                horizons, but internal. In the last 
                section, the singer can't comprehend 
                why her pet dove had died in captivity. 
                After all, it no longer lived alone 
                in the forest, and she fed it and bound 
                its feet with silken thread. She just 
                can't figure out what the bird had to 
                grieve for. 
                Susan Bickley is something of a specialist 
                in new English song, and appreciates 
                Weir's idiom very well. Ailish Tynan's 
                diction is clear and pure, as is Andrew 
                Kennedy's. And of course, there are 
                few pianists as adventurous and fond 
                of new material than Ian Burnside. Thus 
                this is a thoroughly enjoyable recording, 
                even though comparative recordings are 
                thin on the ground. One day, though, 
                perhaps, this music might be re-interpreted 
                with less elegant, and more gutsy voices, 
                but until then, this will be the one 
                to listen to. Weir is far too significant 
                a composer not to listen to, in any 
                form.
                
                  
                Anne Ozorio