To describe Zoroastre as one of Rameau’s most uncompromising music-dramas may seem strange when you consider that when it was revived in 1756, seven years after its première had met a rather lukewarm reception, it was in a heavily revised version in which the love interest had been stepped up. Yet this is indeed a work which stays true to itself. Its subject is an unusual one: Zoroastre, the ancient Persian philosopher and founder of the Magi, does battle with Abramane, an ambitious and malign magician who wishes both for the throne of Bactria and for the hand of its rightful holder (and Zoroastre’s betrothed), Princess Amélite. Zoroastre is also loved by another princess, Erinice, whose anger at being spurned quickly drives her to become Abramane’s ally. Thus the story is of the endless struggle between good and evil which dominates the religion Zoroastre himself has founded.

Rameau’s prime concern, however, is not really with Zoroastrianism, nor with the links which his librettist, Louis de Cahusac, establishes with the more distinctly 18th-century lore of Freemasonry; his responses are first and foremost to the elemental magic scenes and the intensely human emotions of love, jealousy, vengeance and rage thrown up by the story. But even so there is a concentrated seriousness of intent about this work which sets it apart from standard French tragédie lyrique. There is, for instance, no sycophantic prologue in praise of the king, leaving the overture free to become a rare programmatic exposition of the good-versus-evil battle to come. More importantly, the French practice of blurring the distinction between recitatives and arias is intensified, so that choruses and snatches of melody fly past in a breathless, flexible flow of incident. And most effectively of all, Rameau’s music conjures massive dramatic contrasts, ranging from ineffably tender love scenes for Zoroastre and Amélite in Acts 3 and 5 to the almost oppressive demonic power of the subterranean incantations of Act 4, led by the strongly drawn characters of Abramane and Erinice.

To have a master of French Baroque opera of William Christie’s calibre set loose among such pages is a mouth-watering prospect, and sure enough he does not disappoint, maintaining at all times a thrilling level of energy through skilful handling of Rameau’s rich and colourful sound-world. Furthermore, he is not a man to waste notes; his unflagging attention to detail is amply shown, for instance, by the subtle differences he brings to the return of the overture at the end of Act 1, where although the music is the same the context has changed its meaning.

The cast is not an especially starry one, but it is in the best Les Arts Florissants tradition of dramatic commitment and intelligent treatment of text. Mark Padmore has the perfect high tenor voice for Zoroastre, able to charm in tender moments yet rage in the confrontational scenes without losing any of its essential sweetness, while Nathan Berg makes a strong and fearsome-sounding Abramane. Even more impressive, however, are the two principal sopranos: Anna Maria Panzarella gives her all as the tormented Erinice, while Gaëlle Méchaly is wonderfully bright and clear as Amélite.

There are odd moments of vocal weakness among some of the other roles, but they cause no serious damage. The chorus and orchestra both perform with great vigour, the former contributing memorably to the underworld scenes, and the latter performing delightfully in the opera’s many dances. (Having cut quite a few of these from the opera, by the way, Christie generously adds them at the end as an appendix.)

This is not the first time Zoroastre has been recorded, but Sigiswald Kuijken’s 1983 version for Deutsche Harmonia Mundi (5/84), with a cast headed by John Elwes, is not currently available. Thoroughly respectable though it is, it falls short of the compelling dramatic vitality of this excellent newcomer.