Malcolm Martineau marks this year’s Ravel anniversary with a set of the complete songs, a sequel, in effect, to his surveys of Poulenc, Fauré and Duparc, also for Signum. The format is not dissimilar from its predecessors: the songs are divided between multiple singers, nine in this case, and, as with the Duparc cycle, are ordered chronologically, telling us much about the way Ravel shaped and moulded the mélodie to his own ends. Throughout, one notices both the fastidious craftsmanship and startling originality that characterise everything he ever wrote, from ‘Ballade de la Reine morte d’aimer’, his first song from 1893, with its chiming bells tolling out a life cut short, to the amatory complexities and illusions of Don Quichotte à Dulcinée four decades later.

There’s some excellent singing. Lorna Anderson, poised and lyrical, does wonders with the Trois Chansons of 1915, in which bitter humour gives way to intimations of absence and loss in the First World War. Sarah Dufresne sounds exquisite, above all in ‘Ballade de la Reine morte d’aimer’, where breathtaking high pianissimos signal the moment when the Queen’s soul leaves her body. Nicky Spence captures the discreet erotic wit of the Clément Marot Epigrammes and sings the depressive ‘Si morne!’ with restrained intensity. John Chest, in his only contribution to the set, gives us an athletic Don Quichotte à Dulcinée. Like Chest, William Thomas has too little to do, but is remarkable in ‘Un grand sommeil noir’, another bleak song, its measured vocal line winding slowly and implacably upwards. His nobility and fervour also impress in the ‘Chanson hébraïque’ from the Chants populaires. The folk collections are divided between singers here. Spence and Anderson sound particularly beguiling in the Greek songs.

Many, I suspect, would prefer the orchestral Shéhérazade to the 1911 version for piano and flute. Paula Murrihy is less immediately seductive than Fatma Said, also with Martineau (Warner, 12/20), or Marianne Crebassa with Fazıl Say (Erato, 12/17), but tellingly (and unusually) suggests a flash of resentment beneath the disappointment as ‘L’indifférent’ walks away at the close. This is Simon Keenlyside’s second Histoires naturelles with Martineau, his voice leaner than the earlier recording (Wigmore Hall Live, 11/09), though the humour is, if anything, more subtly knowing. He’s deeply affecting in ‘Kaddisch’ from the Mélodies hébraïques, as well. The two great cycles with ensemble fall to Julie Boulianne, meanwhile. Trois Poèmes de Stéphane Mallarmé is ideally sensuous and elusive: we’re very much aware of the greatness of the text here, too. The escalating tensions of ‘Aoua!’ from Chansons madécasses are powerfully realised, while the outer songs have a palpably drowsy sensuality, beautifully conveyed.

Martineau, as one might expect, is the most wonderfully accomplished guide through musical and emotional landscapes in which the piano, more often than not, carries equal weight with the voice, deploying a vast range of dynamics and colour that encompasses everything from the filigree whole-tone tracery of ‘Manteau de fleurs’ to the shifting oriental textures of Shéhérazade. The other instrumentalists are exemplary, too: Lisa Friend’s cool, poised way with the Shéhérazade flute solo is ravishing. It’s a fine set, all in all, more than well worth hearing