Reynaldo Hahn’s reputation rests primarily on his songs, so it comes as something of a shock to realise how few of them we hear on a regular basis. He wrote 107 in all, of which we are familiar with only a fraction, so Palazzetto Bru Zane’s new complete set, with their regular French song specialists Tassis Christoyannis and Jeff Cohen, consequently represents something of a journey of discovery that will inevitably lead to a much-needed reappraisal of his often remarkable achievement.

In 1913 Hahn lectured at the Université des Annales on the relationship between words and music in song, arguing that ‘beauty consists in a perfect union, an amalgam, a mysterious combination of the singing voice and the speaking voice, or to express it better, of melody and words’. He also added, however, that ‘if only one element were to dominate, it would unquestionably be the words; both common sense and artistic feeling decree this’. Sense always dictates sound in Hahn, resulting both in the fastidious way he teases out the meaning and emotional tone of his chosen texts and in his strikingly wide stylistic range. A pupil of Massenet, he is often described as post-Romantic, though from the late 1890s onwards Impressionism lurks behind his ambiguous harmonies, and the shifting pulses, spare piano figurations and asymmetric melodies of Études latines, arguably his masterpiece, owe something to Satie’s Gnossiennes.

Taken as a whole, Hahn’s major cycles and collections constitute a remarkable disquisition on what his lover, Marcel Proust, called ‘les intermittences du cœur’. The erotic humour of the familiar Venezia (1901) contrasts sharply with the spent passions of the virtually unknown, and utterly astonishing, Les feuilles blessées of 1907, with its isolated protagonist wandering round a largely deserted Paris by night. Chansons grises (1893), from which the famous ‘L’heure exquise’ is often extracted, is a cycle of Verlaine settings of extraordinary sensuousness, which really needs to be heard complete, as do the Rondels of 1899, which link Renaissance and Romantic poetry in an elegant, ambivalent depiction of the optimism of youth and the wisdom of age. Études latines is breathtaking in its serene acceptance of the erratic nature of desire, but there’s real bitterness in the English-language Love Without Wings of 1899, in which the vocal line becomes increasingly fragmented as love turns sour.

Some, I suspect, might prefer the songs to be shared by more than one singer, though Christoyannis, in what is in many ways a tour de force, is for the most part exceptional throughout. Just occasionally the recording itself captures a pulse in his upper registers when under pressure, but otherwise everything is beautifully phrased, melody and text are held in well nigh ideal balance and the prevailing mood is one of almost confessional intimacy. He sings Venezia with a glint of mocking irony in his voice which is utterly beguiling. Les feuilles blessées is very dark and moody, Études latines sounds really seductive and Chansons grises is exquisite in its understated rapture. As in their previous collaborations, Cohen is a wonderful foil, always knowing when to assert himself and when to hold back and let the vocal line do the work. Hahn’s piano-writing can often seem deceptively simple but there are lovely shifts in colour and dynamics throughout that carefully underscore the meaning of each song. It’s both a real treat and a fine set that immeasurably enhances our understanding of Hahn and his world. Do listen to it.