Oh, yes, I found it extremely helpful in all sorts of repertoire—obviously in English lute songs, but also in Monteverdi and the Italians. It was their backcloth of thought and they are constantly referring to classical scenes and events, to mythological characters. A lot of the time you can see what a poet’s getting at if you know the story and composers of that time grew up with this literature. My classical training is probably not as good as theirs was. The depth of learning achieved by some in those days was amazing. But it is a good area from which to come at these pieces, to approach them from behind, as it were, rather than more directly.

How much does this apply to languages other than English. Are you a linguist?

A bit. I learned French as a small child when my father was stationed in France for a couple of years. Although I’m not fluent that gave me the courage not to be frightened to try foreign languages. So I had French and I had Latin, which made Italian fairly easy. In fact, the classics side was very useful when it came to 17th century Italian texts, because sometimes the syntax is more classical than modern Italian. There have even been occasions when I’ve politely crossed swords with a modern Italian translator over the interpretation of a madrigal text because the syntax tells me it balances in a particular way and therefore the text is saying such and such. Because I’m not burdened with as big a knowledge of the modern language as they are, I can sometimes sense how a thought or sentence is developing because it is based on a Latin foundation.

That raises a very interesting point, because in recent years we’ve heard a great deal about Italian singers “reclaiming” their early music repertoire from northern Europeans. In a discussion I had with Rinaldo Alessandrini, who of course has been in the forefront of this movement, he made what is in effect the same point you’ve just made—that the Italian his singers are interpreting differs considerably from contemporary Italian. This seems to undermine the argument that only Italians can sing madrigals with real understanding.

I think that’s right. Everyone, even Italians, has to make a bit of an effort with the language. It’s a wonderful thing that the Italians are now taking an interest in their own heritage earlier than Verdi and company. It’s logical and good, but I don’t think it means that the rest of us are no longer allowed to perform this repertoire. Music was a fairly cosmopolitan business in those days. Milton brought back Italian madrigal texts with him from his tour of Italy, so such works had wide dissemination. Goodness knows what the accents were like, but it has always been highly authentic for other nations to have a go. And if you extend the proprietorial idea, think of the Dutch, a very musical nation today. What would they have to sing! Having said that, I must repeat that it is marvellous to hear Italian singers in this music, because I’ve always had a little bit of a grouse with the so-called canto lyrico style, which seems to be a contradiction in terms. Although you got splendid noises the one thing you didn’t get is the lyrics.

But now it’s fascinating. Only a couple of weeks ago I was coaching a beautiful Italian singer, a really lovely girl who was very keen to try baroque pieces. And she was very helpful to the class, because she’d keep telling us how to pronounce things. Listening to her was pure poetry. But when she came to sing the same texts, I couldn’t understand a word. She changed all the vowels, she changed everything. It was remarkable. To then encourage her to sing the way she speaks was a very exciting thing for both of us. In every other way she was a very well-trained singer; she simply had not been taught to do that. So, I think when the Italians learn to sing as they speak, they have an enormous amount to offer us all.

Music was a fairly cosmopolitan business in those days. Milton brought back Italian madrigal texts with him from his tour of Italy, so such works had wide dissemination

Let’s go back for a moment to your earlier career, most of which was ensemble work with the Consort of Musicke. How important was that in preparing the way for your emergence as a soloist?

It was a wonderful way to grow, which we all enjoyed hugely. And we did all emerge with our own different personalities and our own areas to work in. That’s the point—we were all potential soloists. At the absolute peak of the Consort’s activities it never occupied more than 60% or 70% of our time, so people were always doing other things. We had a particularly interesting time with the language, a method of speaking in rhythm as the composer had set the music. We developed that first for Italian texts, but we discovered that it was such a dynamic and liberating thing to do that we started doing it in English and all sorts of polyphonic music as well. It helps you to get away from this necessary structure that the notes and thoughts have gone into. We’re such dutiful musicians that we sometimes think in bars and instinctively lean on the first note of each bar. Polyhonically, without the music you’re trying to get the text across in rhythm. Once or twice when we went into broadcasting studios, people got very excited about this and asked if they could record it! Schoenberg’s Pierrot lunaire gone mad! But it is one of the good ways in, because it really does underline the fact that although the thought is corporate, five people singing the same words, they are almost always expressing the feelings of one person. That’s the paradox of madrigals. One person’s highly intimate thoughts are shared by five people, but the communion really takes off when each vocal line has its own delivery as a person. We also found that approach incredibly useful for things like Gesualdo. When Gesualdo was “rediscovered” by people like Stravinsky, the music was thought of vertically, moving from one chord to the next. But that’s a very constipated way to sing it—it just doesn’t work. What you actually have to do is be as polyphonic as possible, think each line through individually and only think about the tuning of the chords if the sound is wrong. But if it works that way, following the text and thoughts, it’s the most amazing revelation because every startling chord becomes a special event in a seamless whole which has forward movement. Anthony Rooley’s great contribution was that apart from being a very good director, he was also constantly looking out for interesting music. So when we did Gesualdo we surrounded him with predecessors, contemporaries and successors, many of whom went to further extremes than he did.

In your early days, possibly still to some extent, the quality of your voice was the subject of a wide diversity of opinion...

Oh, yes. There were those who couldn’t bear it!

...While you rapidly gained fans for the purity of your singing, there were others who variously called your voice “white”, “expressionless”, “boyish” [Kirkby here added a few similar epithets of her own]. Did that worry you?

Well, there was nothing I could do about it! It was my voice and I had to use it as best I could. I suppose there were times early on when people said it was “white” and not expressiveness enough, I probably would have agreed with them. But I was doing my level best and as you gradually grow into your voice you get more able to use it to express your real feelings. That’s what development is and it’s rare I think to find a really young singer who can get every nuance out, although they’ll have lots of other things to offer. That sort of subtlety comes later. From that aspect I wouldn’t have been in disagreement with some of my critics. Obviously, I’ll never be able to please people who associate passion with volume. Voices come in all sizes and they’ve got heaps of other singers to admire. The more different opinions there are, the more work there is for our profession! But I think as I’ve got older my voice has rounded off, giving me more potential to access darker, richer sounds.

I remember a few years ago a debate broke out as to whether or not your voice is sexy. I can certainly think of instances where it could be so described.
Do you think of yourself as a passionate person?

Um... I don’t know. Do you mean off stage or...

In general terms.

Well, I’ve got a temper and fly off the handle from time to time. I can get upset about things. In that sense I hope I’m human, but at the same time I think that what really excites me about singing is the whole occasion, the combination of sounds that are made. As a singer you are almost never alone completely; there’s always someone to sing with, someone to interact with. Often the amazing effect, sexy or otherwise, is created by, say, a singer and cello on a dissonance. It’s not just the singer, but the sum of the parts. So in that sense I think I’m more of a craftsman than a deeply... I don’t know... I think I want to be expressive, but I know that one achieves the power as a team effort realising the elements the composer has combined. Yes, you feel the emotions, but sometimes adopt quite a businesslike attitude to make sure your part is where it needs to be in fitting in with everyone else. It’s not a solitary business—you draw inspiration from those around you.

I can think of a single word in one of your recordings that qualifies for being called passionate and sexy. It’s the enunciation of the word “cara” [dearest] in Abel’s lovely aria Freni le belle lagrime [see the following discography], which still gives me goose pimples every time I hear it.

Oh, thank you very much! But he sets it so sympathetically! And having said that, the real guts are in the gamba, aren’t they? So one does have that marvellous chance to sing into the instrument, as was happening this afternoon in Dido with the cello in the lament. When I got down on the floor and sang with the cellist, almost directing the sound into her instrument, it worked and then the thing became an easy, wonderful duet. Before that we weren’t quite meeting each other. So I think you’re right about the Abel, that’s a very sexy moment, but its one inspired by the gamba. It’s as much reaction as creation.

Earlier you touched on your teaching and coaching activities. I know that you hold masterclasses at the Guildhall School of Music, but do you also have private pupils?

Not regularly. I don’t take responsibility for anyone! If a singer says they were taught by me they must have used their imagination a great deal. I’m delighted if they come along to my classes and say they’ve picked up a lot of useful information, but that would be it. That’s simply that I’m still singing so much that I don’t have sufficient time to devote to individual needs. A singer needs time, care and devotion. At the moment I can’t give that kind of attention properly. Perhaps if I’m singing less in a few year’s time that might change.

You’ve now become something of a paradigm of early music singing. Do you find young singers consciously trying to become Emma Kirkby “singalikes”?

I have done in the past, but not so much recently. We’ve now got a critical mass of young singers who have sufficiently individual voices and know they can be themselves, thank God. There was a time when beautiful, dusky Hispanic girls would come along and make tiny little noises. I’d say “Where’s the rest of your voice?”, and they’d say “Oh, no, no, I’m supposed to sound like you”. No, you’re not! I’m flattered if people follow some of my reactions to words and some of my techniques, but sound must always be an individual matter. It would be very sad if anyone thought that any one sound represents early music.

It does seem to many of us that singers continue to lag behind instrumentalists when it comes to technique. For example, so few early music singers seem to be able to sing a trill properly.

The trill is one of the most difficult things to master. Most people I can show how to sing coloratura, but the trill is within that sort of area of fluttering that happens; its an oscillating thing that you can either find or not find, a matter of luck. In fact it’s perfectly authentic not to be able to trill. You get references in the 16th and 17th centuries to singers who were terribly good, but unable to trill. So I don’t think one should necessarily use that as a criticism. There are, of course, other stylistic features where I would agree with you. You come across singers who are still hedging their bets and don’t dare to try, for example, all the speech-like techniques, or making your low notes very different to high notes. All that sort of thing.

When you say hedging their bets you mean singers who have not decided whether or not to specialise in early music?

Yes, they’re afraid of getting stuck in a ghetto. But I think it’s getting better all the time. I wouldn’t say you can completely cross over from one repertoire to another. There aren’t very many voices that can sound completely at home in Wagner and in Dowland. But there’s a huge area in between where people can be themselves—Schumann one day, Purcell another. I heard Anne Sofie von Otter, for instance, singing exquisitely with a lute, and she can do all those other things so well. Some can, and that’s fine. But I think the problem is that some singers feel that if they do anything too way out, they won’t be taken seriously by the mainstream people.

The question of repertoire brings me back to you. I’m sure you’ll tell me I’m wrong, but so far as I’m aware you’ve not sung anything later than Haydn or Mozart.

I hadn’t, but now I have! In the past four or five years I’ve just occasionally sung some Schubert. I like it best with a fortepiano, I have to say, but I have even done some with a modern piano. I’ve also just recently done some Debussy. That was very interesting because I found no balance problems at all, although I was finding my way with other things. That was fun, dipping my toes into something really new. And then I just did Mahler 4 in New York.

I remember some years ago reading a letter in a magazine suggesting that you’d be ideal for that last movement.

Yes, I saw that too. I have to say from my point of view I wasn’t altogether prepared. I thought I’d been booked to do a Bach cantata with the Orchestra of St. Luke’s, and so I had. But the second half was Mahler 4 under Roger Norrington, and it was his idea entirely. Once I realised I was committed to it, I thought I may as well get used to it. As it turned out, it was absolutely wonderful. The orchestra made sounds that were just heavenly. Sir Roger has worked with the St. Luke’s players quite a lot and most of the time he gets them to play without vibrato. They are such a stylish orchestra and so delicate. That movement requires the utmost discretion from the orchestra and they played in exactly that way. I was surprised it worked so well and I’m now going to do it a couple more times, once more with Roger and then in Weimar in September.

You’ll be danger of losing your reputation if you’re not careful!

I know. It’s awful! [to the accompaniment of mischievous laughter]

Let’s leave the heady delights of Mahler and return to the world of early music, of which you now have many years experience. How do you see it as having changed and what are your hopes and fears for its future?

The first thing is just amazement at how it has developed in the sense that undoubtedly when we started to be accepted, I suppose in the late 70s, there were some very good players of baroque instruments. But if a couple of them got ‘flu, that was it. You just couldn’t have an orchestra. Today you can go to something like the Handel Festival in Halle and find three or four British groups giving concerts simultaneously, one’s doing Messiah, another a set of cantatas and so on. And of course the general level of excellence has just risen and risen. Now its unusual to go somewhere and find a small group of baroque players who not very good. And with singers again, although, as you say, they may have lagged behind the instrumentalists a bit. Singers have always been more conservative, I think. That’s been documented for hundreds of years. But there are very many good voices, and, I think this the crucial thing, there are people now in their late twenties and early thirties who grew up hearing good singers and players performing early music stylishly. So for them it’s not such a surprising thing to adopt a baroque style. My main fear is whether all these truly talented younger artists are going to get enough work. There is just an embarrassment of riches in every quarter. We were very lucky, because when were cutting our teeth on all this stuff in the late 70s we had the backing of record companies and all sorts of people, and there were fewer of us. The standard was a bit lower, but we were given plenty of time to experiment and I hope that something will happen to give the young players equivalent experience. It needs to, and if you just do it on the market I think it’s going to be very hard to make it work. The market now is more and more volatile, and more susceptible to nine-day wonders and... well, whatever. You know what I mean. It’s now a lottery and behind every successful young artist there are nine or ten who are just as good.

As a singer you are almost never alone completely, there’s always someone to sing with, someone to interact with. Often the amazing effect, sexy or otherwise, is created by, say, a singer and cello on a dissonance. It’s not just the singer, but the sum of the parts

Many of us believe early music has more opportunities than mainstream music. The great thing about early music is that for those who care to look there is still so much outstanding repertoire to be discovered, performed and recorded.

Yes, indeed, I think you’re absolutely right. And of course you can put on concerts or make recordings more economically because of the smaller numbers involved.

Your repertoire on disc has now reached huge proportions, so let me finally put you on the spot. Were you to be cast away on that mythical desert island, which one of your discs would you take with you as a souvenir of your career?

I think it would probably be the disc of Cipriano de Rore’s Fifth Book of Madrigals [Musica Oscura 070991/ not currently available], because it contains so much amazing music that was marvellous for us to perform.

It somehow seems absolutely characteristic that this genuinely unassuming and modest artist should choose, not a disc that showed off her own formidable technique, but one in which she is interacting on equal terms with her colleagues of the Consort of Musicke. A few hours after this interview was completed, I was privileged to hear Emma Kirkby sing the most moving and complete assumption of the role of Purcell’s Dido in my experience. To her it may have been a duet with a cello. To the rest of the audience, it was the climax of what was clearly her night. May there be many more of them.