Music of the Louis XV era doesn't conjure up as clear an image as that of Louis XIV's in most people's minds. Rameau was its greatest exponent, though by no means alone. The enthusiastic patronage of music by the Duke of Orleans, from the beginning of the eighteenth century and during the minority of Louis XV, brought about a great flowering of chamber music and, in particular, violin sonatas and harpsichord suites. His death in 1723 and the accession of a king largely indifferent to music made little impact on the publishing and performing of courtly music. The vogue of Corelli had given way to that of Vivaldi; playing the harpsichord was, like dancing, a must for every young woman with pretensions to refinement. From the 1720s onwards dozens of collections were printed and in 1734 alone three (from Leclair's Op. 5, Mondonville's Op. 3 and Guillemain's Op. 1) of the six works on this CD were published.
These are not, however, works for mere amateurs. They are fiendishly demanding and all the more exciting for being so. Simon Standage has never been diffident, but as he matures he plays more beautifully, less driven, freer and altogether more expressively. The sonatas of Leclair and Guillemain admirably suit the emerging Standage. The Leclair sonatas are packed with wonderful arching phrases, intricately wrought ornamentation and unexpected chromatic twists. They are essentially happy works (even the A minor Sonata, where in the second movement the sense of expectation never abates) and the bold and glorious Andante spirituoso, opening the A major Sonata is infused with whimsical virtuosity. Guillemain's sonata exudes panache. He must have felt keenly the precedent of Leclair and Guignon, the darlings of Paris and the Concert Spirituel. Even the essentially sober Sarabanda is permeated with bravura—soaring rockets and elaborate tonics (note too the witty trills on the tonics in the Presto).
Lars Ulrik Mortensen's performance is no less im-pressive. He is a superb continuo player, weaving exquisite textures beneath and, as in the Mondonville sonata, around the violin part, subtly picking up on all the composers' nuances and tricks, all the while offering just the right support to the violin. As a soloist, Mortensen delivers equally fascinating performances by developing a rich palette of instrumental colour on the Blanchet copy made by David Rubio. He brings off the Ramellian allusions in the wide-ranging La de Redemond with great style and imitates the most sonorous of lutes in La du Buq. In his hands, the meditative Forqueray chaconne (owing to its viol origins) thrives—indeed, rumbles wonderfully—in the lowest, most sensuous regions of a French double-manual harpsichord.'