For the last few years Josephine Foster has resembled a musical archaeologist, digging in to disjointed renditions of classical German song-art, adapting Emily Dickinson's pure, sensory poetry and now, unearthing Federico Garcia Lorca's unassuming radicalism. Should that sound academic, opener Los Cuatro Muleros dispels such worry. It's a lively prelude, the players taking place, for the tale shalt be told. Anda Jaleo captures the playfully serious tone of flamenco perfectly. There isn't much need for translation, as good spirits reside, Foster radiating an uncontrived eccentricity as she clicks her castanets and stomps her feet in time. By the end, she sings to herself, alone, wavering and murmuring, the party was old-fashioned, but it still echoes in memory, on the close of summer.
