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This chapter examines the oral textuality of lyrics (‘balets’) circulating within the Tudor court, and discusses the phenomenon of answer poems in this literary culture. Speakers in these balets are often no more than rhetorical effects—ventriloquized personae whose plangent utterances serve primarily to display the poet’s sprezzatura (effortless artistry), as advocated by Castiglione’s Il Cortegiano. Wyatt turns an inherited stock of amatory conventions on their head, and exploits the variability of repeated refrains to write, self-consciously, about the act of writing amatory verse. The narrative of these balets, in which we typically find a hapless, unrequited speaker, contrasts with their material condition, as they circulate within and are answered by a literary company. Readers are invited to respond to the verse that is exchanged in these textual networks, and to exploit the page space beneath poems to pen answers that sustain the scripted dialogue and renew the intertextual play.

This chapter applies the concept of “the turn” in Louis Althusser’s theory of subject formation through interpellation by language to the musical turning points in medieval love lyrics that are tornadas, envois, and refrains. In most cases tornadas and envois are fragmentary half-stanzas that break the formal and thematic structure of the strophic canso and chanson with an abrupt change of voice and address, from the “timeless” idiomatic language of courtly love to a sudden rooting in the author’s present. Yet this moment of transparent subjectivity recycles rhymes, notes, and sometimes words in a way that resembles refrain procedures. Refrains in the context of dance songs are allegedly group responses, while in the context of chansons, motets, and narratives they often represent a quotation or reported song—a repetition of a different order. The familiar yet fresh musico-poetic turns of tornadas, envois, and refrains bring to the fore the paradox of agency and submission as well as ambiguities of subjectivity and expression inherent in medieval love songs; they formalize and thus authorize the disruption of the conventional voice, signaling the fissures between the self and the subject, as well as subjective and collective voices.

This chapter examines a subgenre of monophonic songs labeled motet enté (meaning “grafted motet”) in some medieval sources. These songs were conceived and crafted from the fusing of the single-voiced chanson and the multi-voiced motet. The term “motet” is itself multivalent, for medieval sources often refer to refrains as “motets.” Refrains conceptually multiply and blur voices; thus they encapsulate in a figurative way the literal, aural effects of polyphonic motets. Composers, with the horticultural technique of grafting in mind, worked the many guises and voices of the motet into single-stanza, free-verse songs that strongly resemble triplum or motetus parts, but which are emphatically monophonic. As a compositional practice, grafting has an analog in present-day “sampling” found in popular music; both grafting and sampling create musical hybrids that ask readers and listeners to access their knowledge of multiple musical and literary contexts. The medieval “monophonic motet,” as both a product of grafting and a graft onto the central chanson repertory, calls attention to the cross-genre, and in some cases cross-gender, dialogues contained within a single voice.

This chapter explores the performative context of the Hermias song, taking a dialectical approach to context both as a reflection of historical reality and as a projection of the poetic text itself. Reconstructions of the première of Aristotle’s song are examined, including Wilamowitz’ hypothesis that it was composed to be performed alongside a prose text by Callisthenes in honor of Hermiasat a commemorative ceremony for Hermias held by Aristotle and fellow philosophers and friends of the deceased. An extract of Callisthenes’ Hermias is examined and its possible generic status is explored in light of the variety of fourth-century prose forms. Although there is not sufficient evidence to prove or disprove Wilamowitz’ scenario, it is argued that the poem gives every sign of being an authentic work of Aristotle’s. The story of the song being put on trial is also found credible in its essence by drawing out its political implications for the 320s.

This chapter turns to questions of genre in the first instance to understand the cultural context in which a person could be charged with impiety for composing a hymn to a friend. Greek poetic genres are presented not as purely academic concepts but as embodying powerful cultural values and expectations that could determine the meanings of songs and govern their circulation through society. The chapter surveys the main ways of identifying kinds of lyric poetry that were developed the archaic age to Hellenistic scholarship in order to understand the literary critical background to the trial. Establishing a view of genres not as sets of rules but as negotiable ideals, It is argued that, once removed from its original performative context, Aristotle’s song could change its genre in reperformance and be used as a hymn, a paean, or a sympotic song (a skolion).

Part One traces the development of Refrain-song in the early years of the fourteenth century and its emergence as a locus for compositional experiment. It demonstrates how citational play remained a central element in various song types popular in the early 1300s, especially in the Refrain-forms that were to become the basis for the Ars nova chanson. Chapter One explores examples from a large collection of dance-songs called ballettes, prototypes of the Ars nova ballade, which appear, without their music, in a source from Metz in Lorraine (Oxford Bodleian, MS Douce 308). Citation served here to enlarge the scope of the humble dance-song as it evolved into a more ambitious vehicle for lyric expression. Evidence for the collective and collaborative experience of lyric is encountered in a network of interrelated songs, reinforcing earlier suspicions that the chansonnier was the product of a local coterie of song-writers.

This chapter looks at Stace Constantinou’s From the Book of Songs (2014). This is a work of haunting originality and quirky memorability by a composer whose imagination and flair are backed up by technological expertise. Each of the five movements has a distinct character, and delightful surprises abound. Undeniably, patience, stamina, and dedication are needed, but a gifted artist will find it a fascinating and rewarding task. The tape does not run continuously, so a technician needs to be on hand to stop and start each song. The soprano has some gloriously lyrical phrases and catchy refrains, as well as Sprechstimme and onomatopoeic effects. The tape part consists of piano-like figures in microtones and purely electroacoustic sounds. Standard notation is used and timings are given in seconds. In the last movement, the taped accompaniment is given an eight-line stave.

This chapter assesses American composer Sebastian Currier’s The Nymphs Are Departed (2006). Disarmingly simple in appearance, and confined throughout within a practicable range, this arresting short piece should have a direct appeal in its almost hypnotic concentration and economy. The vocal part shows the composer’s instinctive ability to communicate without resorting to expressionist extremes. The musical style is basically tonal and exceptionally uncluttered, but, as all singers will be aware, controlling exposed, undecorated lines requires a secure technique. Note-values are straightforward, and pitches and phrases are frequently repeated. This means that the singer can develop ‘muscle memory’ as well as aural familiarity, useful for places later in the piece where the accompaniment holds fewer pitch cues. The piano part consists mainly of minimalist, repetitive figures, which gradually proliferate and intensify towards the centre of the piece, which takes the form of a balanced arc. Since a great many dynamics are soft, light, lean voices will have the advantage, especially sopranos and tenors, who will be comfortable singing low notes without recourse to an overrich sound.

This chapter highlights British composer Brian Elias’s Once Did I Breathe Another’s Breath (2012), a substantial and highly satisfying cycle. The piano part is quite complex and demanding, requiring a player with very safe hands—this is very much a duo partnership. A carefully chosen selection of five texts from the seventeenth century dwells on the theme of love—the first four poems reflecting its happier side, and the final song rueing the fact that its joys fade with time. The warmest resonances of the baritone voice are used to best effect, and there are several moments of heightened sensitivity where the voice rises to soft, sustained high notes which will need good support. The piano writing is full-textured, often intricate and fast-moving, and it pilots the changing moods of the texts. Ultimately, the exceptionally unified musical language maintains cohesion through the cycle, which should make a powerful and lasting impression.

This chapter describes Tasmanian composer Dan Kay’s Four Bird Songs from Shaw Neilson (2005). The texts for this pleasing, fluent cycle are by the farmworker-poet Shaw Neilson, and reflect his close affinity with the natural world, especially the life of waterbirds. Kay’s palpable empathy with these unsophisticated but burningly sincere poems draws music of clarity and refinement. The frequent modal melodies and minor harmonies cannot help but call to mind Vaughan Williams and the English folk-song tradition, but Kay manages to inject an individual flavour by means of chromatic shifts and varied rhythms, especially in the last two, slightly longer, songs. A light young baritone with a safe high register would be ideal here. The piano writing is clear and uncluttered, with simple, repeated figurations, and there is no need to force the voice. Standard notation is used throughout.

This chapter highlights British composer Edwin Roxburgh’s Reflections (2010). This exciting diptych set to Richard Cutler’s galvanizing poems offers a challenging but ultimately beneficial workout for both singer and pianist. The baritone gets directly into his stride in a bold, relatively short opening song, priming him to tackle the more substantial demands of the second, much longer movement. As a wind player, Roxburgh is aware of the desirability of using air as economically as possible, making full use of lung capacity when spanning lengthy phrases. The singer is frequently stretched to the limit of breath, with just enough time to refuel between phrases, before relaunching a firm, carrying tone for long-drawn lines, against a piano part packed with flurries of repetitive figurations. Freely atonal, the musical idiom is tightly knit and consistent, with pitch centres and chromatic intervals often recurring, and the singer’s rhythms are mainly straightforward.

This chapter addresses US-born British composer David Bruce’s That Time With You (2013). This impressive cycle retains clear stylistic traces of Bruce’s American heritage. His basic idiom is tonal and strongly grounded, and also contains modal elements. It demands a well-schooled singer with a wide expressive range, stamina, and good breath control. The singer must also be calm and unflappable, so as not to be fazed by the relentlessly fast, irregular rhythmic patterns in the first and third songs. The vocal writing in general is warm, earthy, and womanly. The composer sensibly keeps within the voice’s richest and most rewarding middle range, avoiding extremes. This means that words can be heard easily, and a palette of sensual colours explored. Ultimately, the specially commissioned poems evoke an intuitive response. Bruce sees the cycle as belonging to the tradition of ‘sorrowful songs’ and, of course, the blues. In the first and third settings (‘The Sunset Lawn’ and ‘Black Dress’), the singer is the voice of Death, but in the other two (“That Time with You’ and ‘Bring me Again’), the outpouring of regret is more personal, yet somehow strangely distanced.

This chapter examines a compelling solo work by Oliver Knussen in which his command of style and acute sensitivity to vocal and verbal subtleties are immediately apparent. Here, pitches and rhythms are calibrated with precision, and a host of detailed dynamic and expressive markings guide the performer to a disciplined and faithful reading. Though fragmentary in appearance, and larded with meticulous shadings and accents, the music flows in long paragraphs, and its subtle intricacies result in a sense of spontaneous rhythmic freedom, almost as if improvised. The agile vocal lines moreover teem with shifting emotions, and shows a refined technique to advantage.

This chapter discusses Peacocks with a Hundred Eyes by John McLeod. Written for counter-tenor, this cycle skilfully exploits the distinctive timbre of that voice. Here, McLeod manages to create an intriguing and distinctive amalgam of baroque and contemporary gestures, including double-dotted Purcellian rhythms, graceful curling melismas, and glissandos. The composer furthermore has the happy idea of intertwining the texts, and this works splendidly, providing a balanced and satisfyingly cogent structure. Percy Bysshe Shelley's familiar poem (‘Music, When Soft Voices Die’) is split into four, each two-line fragment followed by a Christina Rossetti setting, which is expanded by piano solo passages, and it all ends in buoyant mood with the well-loved ‘A Birthday’. Unifying features include repeats of pitch sequences, often as haunting refrains. The cycle runs continuously, and its richly contrasting material and imaginative sweep sustain interest throughout.

This chapter explores the work of James MacMillan. It examines a brief cycle, which demonstrates his ability to scale down and simplify his style without lowering his standards or resorting to pastiche. Seemingly naïve, strophic settings have an appealing freshness here, bearing the stamp of someone with an innate understanding of the practicalities and subtler natural nuances of the voice. The piano writing, too, is arresting, and musical ideas are deployed with economy and skill. Although the three songs were written for different occasions—the first was originally for voice and ensemble—they work extremely well as a sequence, since the endings of the first and second settings imply a continuity, proceeding attacca into the next.

This chapter showcases the sterling quality of Anthony Milner’s output through his beautifully balanced cycle, Our Lady's Hours. This cycle is set to texts which reflect his deep religious faith. His style is assured and bracingly vigorous, combining elements of neoclassicism with flashes of earlier English Romantics. Although the appearance of the score is conventional, with key and time signatures, the music displays a rich chromaticism and powerful rhythmic drive, as well as a special sensitivity to keys and their distinctive colours. The vocal writing is wide-ranging and often highly decorative, and piano parts are full of vibrancy and panache. The substantial central song of the three is an extended scena, framed by a simple introduction and a flowing, densely textured Adagio finale.

This chapter explores some New Zealand music from John Ritchie. Compact and tightly structured, this cycle is a model of its kind. It carries a powerfully evocative atmosphere with touching simplicity and directness. Ritchie has a gift for creating distinctive, repeated motifs that stay indelibly in the mind. He writes expertly for the voice, with arching lines in practicable spans, stretching over a wide range without strain. Vocal lines are so finely chiselled that pitches can be plotted with jewel-like precision, with time to gauge each interval cleanly in relation to the piano. The music maintains a natural fluency through changes of tempo and mood, from confiding intimacy and bitter reflection to emotional outpourings.