Louis Couperin Complete Works • Rondeau et al.

Introduction

Erato artist Jean Rondeau—yes, that French guy with the hair—returns with a major new release. If you’re new to him, three earlier albums illustrate his strengths:

• Vertigo, exploring Rameau and Royer;
• his Telemann program with the ensemble Nevermind;
• Bach-Imagine, his debut, featuring Bach in Brahms’s arrangements.

Across these, he lingers where the music invites savoring but also embraces its athletic demands. This new set confirms those dual tendencies.

My last encounter with Louis Couperin’s complete harpsichord works was through Richard Egarr’s four-disc traversal on Harmonia Mundi, played on two Katzman instruments. Like Davitt Moroney on the same label before him, Egarr helped draw me into Couperin’s world—a composer deeply concerned with harmony’s unfolding, tension-building, and release. He was also, unmistakably, a thinker: the music consistently avoids simplicity.

As a point of comparison between Egarr and Rondeau, I selected the Passacaille in G minor, G. 98. The contrast in recorded character is immediate: Egarr’s instrument is lighter and more delicate; Rondeau’s is fuller, warmer, and more present. I know which sound I prefer, but Egarr’s Katzman is hardly unattractive. More intriguing is the stylistic difference: Egarr gives us clean articulation and space around notes, while Rondeau—true across much of this set—seems to let adjacent tones mingle, holding keys longer, “smearing” harmonies in a way that feels expressive rather than imprecise. Historically appropriate or not, the effect is charming and suits the resonant acoustics around him.

To check my instincts, I returned to Christophe Rousset’s 2010 Tombeau de Monsieur de Blancrocher. Rousset allows some mingling too, but far less than Rondeau. He also avoids significant rubato, whereas Rondeau (CD 3, track 9—and the promotional video) makes emotional weight central to his phrasing. Some may find the effect too romantic; I find it persuasive and engaging.

(Aside: I struggle with the idea that a performer should move an audience while remaining outwardly unmoved. I also understand why some listeners dislike visible emoting onstage.)

This Erato production presents Couperin’s complete works—twelve hours across ten CDs. Beyond harpsichord music, it includes vocal selections, wind pieces, contributions from the Ricercar Consort under Philippe Pierlot, and Rondeau performing the organ works on multiple historical instruments. He also inserts non-Couperin pieces from the period to contextualize the composer’s idiom.

N.B. Fans of the Blancrocher tombeau will appreciate the Ricercar version featuring treble viol—a strikingly different color that almost suggests an imagined texted lament.

Rondeau employs several historical instruments and replicas, recorded on location where they live. The booklet includes moody photographs of these striking pieces of craftsmanship. Their beauty, however, is heard even more than seen.

I can't speak to how much listeners consider when it comes to historical tuning, or the need to adjust tuning between keys. Temperament shapes an instrument’s expressive palette; pure intervals can bloom, dissonances can crunch. For a vivid illustration, listen to the Gaultier Tombeau on CD 1: the arrival of several major triads feels almost three-dimensional, a reminder of what equal temperament flattens. The effect appears throughout the set and is one of its luxuries. The team even credits multiple tuners, underscoring the ambition of this project.

Aline Blondiau receives recording-engineer credit early in the booklet, and rightly so: the results are superb. On CD 8, track 28 (another Gaultier tombeau, with buff stop), the sound remains warm and intimate. Capturing dozens of hours of music across locations and instruments is no small feat, and the engineering is consistently clear, close, and quiet—an audiophile presentation without ostentation.

N.B. The booklet even mentions adding reverb to one organ track for realism and using a consistent microphone pair for Rondeau’s sessions—details recording enthusiasts (like me) will appreciate.

The Composer and His Music

Couperin (1626–1661) served as organist and court musician, and none of his works were published in his lifetime. His legacy is anchored in the unmeasured prelude—written freely, without rhythmic notation—and Erato appropriately places examples of these at the beginning and end of the booklet. For this project, Rondeau created his own versions of the keyboard works from multiple sources, all documented, including the Moroney edition and several contemporary arrangements contributed by colleagues.

Comprehensive sets like this are time-intensive, expensive undertakings, but they offer listeners a unified perspective. The limitation, of course, is that they don’t reflect a realistic performance experience. No one in Couperin’s day imagined hours of uninterrupted listening. Erato pragmatically casts each CD as its own “concert,” generally tied to a particular instrument or location, each shaping its own harmonic world. Listeners can follow that structure—or, as many will, create their own playlists and pathways.

A clear project-wide vision emerges early. On CD 2, track 11, strings perform the Pavanne G. 120 with controlled delicacy, and its somber unfolding mirrors Rondeau’s approach in the preceding Sarabande G. 117. Couperin’s palette isn’t monochrome; CD 2 also gives us La Piémontoise (track 13), an earlier dance form that hints at the courtly world later made famous by his nephew, François Couperin le Grand.

Rondeau’s sensitivity to tuning is especially rewarding in the Gavotte G. 125 (CD 9, track 8). Harmonies glow, while his deft articulation offers contrast to his more blended style in the preludes—a balance recalling what I praised in Egarr and Rousset, yet clearly his own.

CD 4 moves us into Couperin’s sacred sphere. Rondeau opens at the organ; then a haunting voice enters, placing us in liturgical space. The later Pavanne G. 120 (yes, its second appearance in the set) feels like a bridge: the organ’s natural sustain acts as the acoustic model for Rondeau’s harpsichord legato, the same “smearing” or merging of harmonies that defines many of his interpretations.

The organ’s color is striking in the Fantaisie sur le cromhorne OL 57, especially when beatings arise. Plainchant interpolations offer contextual grounding—this isn’t a McCreesh-style reconstruction, but they enrich the listening experience. CD 4 closes with the gamba player Robin Pharo (Rondeau’s colleague from Nevermind) performing the Tombeau de Mézengeau with organ, a less common but evocative combination. What elevates the track is its shared sensibility: the ensemble internalizes Rondeau’s expressive priorities and mirrors them.

On CD 5, track 2, Rondeau plays Froberger’s Toccata FbWV 102. The lute-derived opening is performed with fluid freedom before shifting to the more structured contrapuntal section. The Humeau harpsichord used here has an unusually fruity tone—lighter in the bass than the Kennedy instrument recorded in Italy. Kudos to Rondeau and the production team for seeking out instruments with such varied personalities.

CD 7 returns to the Kennedy, a large, resonant harpsichord worth hearing in the Suite in C (tracks 20–25). The prélude bursts with ornamentation; the courante hints at naturalistic imitation; the sarabande explores a surprising harmonic path; and the rigaudon with its double is deceptively simple but ornamentally intricate. Comparing the track to Egarr, I preferred Rondeau’s choices, though the contrast itself shows why this repertoire is endlessly fascinating.

Later on CD 7, we revisit Froberger via his version of the Blancrocher Tombeau—evidence of the set’s commitment to completeness and cross-context.

CD 8 features the Ruckers harpsichord from Colmar in the final Gaultier track. Despite its lutenistic gestures, the piece is unmistakably keyboard writing; Rondeau uses the instrument to illuminate the connection between lute style and French keyboard idioms. The CD opens with a Chambonnières Pavane. I cannot entirely explain why three harpsichords appear on this disc—interspersed with organ preludes, fantaisies, and fugues—but given the constraints of CD formatting, I don’t fault Erato. Listeners who find the shifts disorienting may prefer to reorganize tracks when streaming.

CD 10 returns fully to the church, with winds led by dulzian player Jérémie Papasergio, joined by sackbut, oboes, and cornets. Tracks 14–15 lean toward a Renaissance sonority, offering a window into stylistic evolution. Couperin seems forward-looking in the fugue (track 10) and the Fantaisie OL 56, yet backward-facing in the adaptation of Ave maris stella OL 10 (track 26). His short life did not prevent him from bridging musical eras.

While the tenth CD closes the official sequence, I might recommend that listeners end their own journey with the Suite in F (CD 9, tracks 16–23). The Chaconne is stately and bold, and Rondeau’s ornamentation is superbly judged.

Conclusion

Rondeau and his many collaborators clearly want to make the case that Louis Couperin is a “big deal.” A four-disc set—or even a single recital—would have been easier to market, but this ten-disc project has substantial value for baroque enthusiasts, scholars, and students alike. While obvious to many, this was a considerable undertaking and one that I think was approached with care.

Couperin’s music stands at a stylistic crossroads: Renaissance counterpoint giving way to a more exploratory harmonic language, enriched by temperaments that intensify leading tones, illuminate pure thirds, and sharpen dissonances. This set helps reveal that expressive world by surrounding Couperin with music by his contemporaries and by juxtaposing his works for church with his more fashionable dance pieces intended for a royal audience. It becomes a portrait of a composer—and an era—in transition.

I suspected Rondeau’s temperament would suit this repertoire. He thrives in slower, harmony-driven music where his rubato and long-line phrasing convey what he’s feeling, yet he can offer crisp articulation and velocity when the music demands it. The unmeasured preludes are perfect territory for him, as is the organ literature, where his sustained chordal connections mirror his approach at the harpsichord.

Three strengths define this entire undertaking: (1) consistently supportive sound despite shifting venues and instruments; (2) the musicians’ technical preparation, which clarifies the emotional stakes of this repertoire; (3) a coherent interpretive vision shared by Rondeau and his colleagues.

A project of this scale resists single-review treatment. At times I was reminded of Scott Ross’s Scarlatti cycle—another pursuit of completeness using multiple instruments, embracing variety rather than uniformity. As with Scarlatti, you cannot listen to everything at once. Couperin’s music is rich enough that small doses can adequately satisfy. A chaconne like La complaignante, G. 57 (Disc 1, track 8), contains so much harmonic and rhetorical detail that one track may require reflection before moving on. It’s like walking through a major museum: attempting everything at once is rarely effective, but skipping anything feels wasteful.

Purchasing this set is an investment in your future listening time. You do not need to hear all twelve hours to appreciate the intention, craftsmanship, and personality on display. A single track may place you inside a sensual sound world—an outcome of meticulous engineering, carefully chosen instruments, period-appropriate tunings, and sharply defined musical instincts.

This set deserves to remain a reference for Louis Couperin’s music: not only for assembling everything in one place, but for showing one compelling way to perform it. Whether you return to it often will depend on your reaction to Rondeau’s use of rubato, at times markedly lingering. Compared to Sempé’s more propulsive style (evident in his 2004 Alpha disc), Rondeau uses harmony itself as an expressive medium. I still admire Sempé’s forward drive; the thrill of momentum is real. But Rondeau’s aesthetic feels comparatively justified by the results.

For me, Rondeau’s interpretations are indulgent and satisfying, reflecting the opulence of French baroque art and architecture. He and his peers illuminate this repertoire’s emotional breadth, balancing the gilded expressivity of the keyboard suites with the more austere character of Couperin’s organ music.