Heldentenors have a surprisingly respectable recorded history in the most introspective of Schubert lieder, and Klaus Florian Vogt has the special advantage of a light‑ish timbre that has made him an ethereal Lohengrin – and a downright boyish love-struck protagonist in Die schöne Müllerin. An even greater wild card in this recording: Schubert’s piano-writing is replaced by a chamber ensemble modelled after the Schubert Octet, but whose wind-instrument presence underscores the folksy element that, with Vogt’s portrayal of the character, creates a singularly theatrical package. Such adaptions are more common in Schubert’s Winterreise. But this and the recent Thomas Guthrie recording (Rubicon) with string quintet and two guitars are low-stakes experiments worth trying, both successful in different ways. The obvious downside is losing the Schubert piano-writing and its powers of suggestion. Does anything convey romantic anxiety better than piano?

Not that Andreas N Tarkmann’s adaptation for Vogt isn’t earnest and respectful. Yes, a few instrumental passages are expanded somewhat from the original. But the textural possibilities of the instrumentation – clarinet, bassoon, horn, two violins, viola, cello and double bass – are artfully employed for deeper dives into the more painfully unguarded moments in Wilhelm Müller’s 20 poems. Throughout the cycle, the clarinet and string instruments create a linear motion that’s a natural fit for the cycle’s water imagery, not just setting the scene early on but also to suggest the brook gently beckoning the young miller to his death. To Tarkmann’s credit, no predictable formula emerges. He resists any special wind solos in the final verse of ‘Eifersucht und Stolz’ (‘Jealousy and pride’) that describes a reed cut to make a pipe; the instrumentation sticks to the core purpose of the song. The hunting imagery demands a strong horn presence in ‘Die böse Farbe’ (‘The loathsome colour’) but in other instances the instrumentation simply contributes to the lyricism with surprising subtlety.

Even though Vogt is a word-attentive Wagnerite, he resists detailed colouring, inflections and even vibrato heard from seasoned lieder singers. At first, he can seem puzzlingly uninvolved. Yet as the cycle builds, one realises that Vogt is portraying the young naive protagonist with hapless passivity. He’s an almost-blank slate, a life that’s ending as it’s beginning. Vogt suggests a visual image as the miller’s boyish heartbreak is conveyed with an effective quiver in the voice. Rarely does he attempt to change his vocal colour to portray the other voices evoked by the text, since, after all, this is the miller’s story. Underneath it all is Vogt’s charisma and solid relationship with the German language. Though some songs are more effective than others, there’s a haunting aftertaste in this insinuating recording.

Guthrie’s informal guitar-based adaptation, played by Barokksolistene led by Bjarte Eike, is more consistently convincing than Tarkmann, but Vogt’s vocal prowess makes his recording preferable. Intentionally or not, both adaptations are in keeping with John Potter’s recent book Song: A History in 12 Parts (2/24), urging performers to wear their composers like a looser garment. Philosophically I agree, though gains and losses are inevitable when dealing with a masterwork on the level of Die schöne Müllerin.