ENDNOTES May 2015
In this issue: An Archduke from Beethoven * Intimate letters from Janacek * A sonata for strings by Malcolm Arnold * Pageant of British music from Chandos.
Recorded live in the fine acoustic of St. George’s Bristol, the complete piano trios series from Somm Records continues to set a benchmark for chamber music. Volume 4 more than lives up to what has gone before, with that perfect blend of analytical precision and generosity of rich, melodic tone that are the hallmarks of the Gould Piano Trio (Lucy Gould, violin, Alice Neary, cello, and the pianist, Benjamin Frith). They delight us on CD with three Beethoven masterpieces, the Trio in E flat major, Op.1, No. 1; the trio in E flat major (which has the designation, Hess 48), and the well-known “Archduke Trio” – the four-movement Op. 97, B flat major work, which Beethoven dedicated to Archduke Rudolph (1788-1831), a keen music student who benefited from the tutelage of the composer.
All successful chamber groups and ensembles have that indefinable “second sight” – the ability to play and listen as one, and to anticipate the next move, gesture or inflexion, but the Gould Trio achieves a rare oneness of expression and sound in their elegant transitions through Beethoven’s many compelling themes, variations and fertile, flourishing ideas. For a composition for three players, the Op. 97 is surprisingly “large”, dynamic and wide-ranging: the listener can immediately tell that Beethoven is a symphonic composer, able to fill his imaginative landscape-in-sound with many commanding peaks, and gentle valley floors. The two outer movements, marked Allegro, have great vitality, as does the second scherzo section. The 12-minute-long Andante cantabile shows us the depths of Beethoven, and in the hands of the Gould Trio, I doubt if any listener could wish for a better interpretation.
Beethoven’s example as a composer of chamber music and symphonies probably inspired every other musician who came in his wake. Following Beethoven’s example, Bruckner, Mahler and Malcolm Arnold wrote nine symphonies – as did Vaughan Williams, although Sibelius fell short by two. And Beethoven’s idealistic opera, Fidelio, and the Ode to Joy finale of his Ninth Symphony showed how, in revolutionary times, serious messages could and should be disseminated by the artist. His legacy is vast – and far-reaching. In the new spirit of 20th-century national consciousness, both Janacek and Martinu – Czech nationalists – continued the European tradition of expressive chamber music with the writing of string quartets; Chandos records bringing us three such pieces on their new disc, performed by the Doric Quartet – an ensemble of brilliant musicians from the younger generation, and the winners of leading international prizes in the chamber genre, in Japan, Italy and Germany. First performed in 1924, in the presence of the composer, Janacek’s First String Quartet was inspired by a Tolstoy tale, The Kreutzer Sonata (which took its name, in turn, from the sonata by Beethoven). Concerned with the suffering of a woman in a “swinish” marriage, Tolstoy’s protagonist forms a liaison with a fellow musician, and together, they perform Beethoven’s sonata – which leads to an explosion of jealous rage on the part of the woman’s obsessive husband. Janacek’s own personal life had its own complications (his marriage was coming to an end – due to his infatuation with a lady, many years his junior, by the name of Kamilla Stosslova), and his sonata reflects these emotional disturbances, although – curiously – he writes not out of self-pity, but of pity for the wife and her unhappiness.
The second quartet, subtitled Intimate Letters, is similarly concerned with Kamilla; and the 600 or so letters that he penned to her, his muse:
“For the last eleven years you have, without knowing it, been my idol. Whenever there is warmth of feeling, sincerity, truth and ardent love in my compositions, you are the source of it.”
For Janacek, this was music composed in the very immediacy of experience: “acquiring its shape in fire”, rather than something re-created from the memory of embers and “hot ashes”. The quartets are clearly not “constructed”, or in any way an exercise in form. This is physical music, burning its way from the body and soul, with an ever-present spikiness and tension – the Doric Quartet leading us through the loneliness, the sudden outbursts of desire and anger which open and close like the doors of a sinister house of secrets.
Bohuslav Martinu’s String Quartet No. 3 (first performed in the United States in 1930) completes this Czech collection, and for those unfamiliar with Martinu, I can but point you, either to the unique Fifth Symphony – one of my first introductions to this overlooked figure – or to the film which Ken Russell made in the early 1990s, The Mystery of Dr. Martinu – a biopic, or more correctly, composer-phantasmagoria, so typical of this “appalling talent”, as Russell was once described by critics. With strange dreams and suggestions unfolding in Martinu’s (and Russell’s) febrile mind, maidens (in various stages of undress) brandishing Czech flags, and dancing through Bohemia’s woods and fields – and even an appearance by a locomotive of a miniature railway in Kent – the film is an unusual but effective piece of music-education! The Doric Quartet, though, pulls us back into the actual Martinu: the composer whose music suggests new worlds and sound-worlds, complex and compact forms, with the ability to shape some noble phrases from raw energy, and a colliding, curdling, kaleidoscopic 20th-century tonal background.
If there is one British composer who could be likened to Martinu, it might be Sir Malcolm Arnold (1921-2006): trumpet player, symphonist, prolific composer of film scores (from The Sound Barrier to St. Trinian’s), writer of breezy English, Scottish and Cornish Dances (not to mention a march for the Padstow lifeboat), and conductor – in 1969 – of the diverse-and-democractic-before-its-time Concerto for Group and Orchestra, in which Deep Purple joined the Royal Philharmonic at the Albert Hall. Arnold could be the most generous of men, but throughout his life he fought against many inner demons and suffered from a darker side, all of which accentuated in his music a tragedy and tenderness. Yet there was a gift for radiant, loving, transcendent melody – curving away into chirpy, street-corner tunes that make you want to whistle along (even some hymn-like phrases now and again), but these passages can suddenly twist into blistering, shrieking Shostakovich-like marches and dances of death.
From Somm, comes a beguiling rendition of his Sonata for Strings (actually a string quartet from the mid-1970s, later expertly arranged by fellow composer, David Matthews, and first performed just before the composer’s death) – played by the 16-strong Orchestra of St. Paul’s, conducted by Ben Palmer. May I offer a warning to listeners? If you are in any way a sentimental person, it might be best to avoid playing the fourth movement Allegretto-Vivace-Lento music of the sonata: Arnold has written a wistful, soft-flickering idea, so simple, so evocative of lost days, or lost loves or deep memories of some kind – irreplaceable and locked-in-the-heart – that it is difficult not to feel a gulp in the throat, or the tingle of a tear at the corner of the eye. This is a truly beautiful piece of writing, and Ben Palmer’s players make much of its deep saying; its gentle, poignant, understated magic.
Meanwhile, and with equally polished playing, Chandos bring us a magnificent box-set of all nine Arnold symphonies, the conducting shared between the late Richard Hickox, and the British music enthusiast (and film-music specialist), Rumon Gamba. The London Symphony and BBC Philharmonic orchestras are presented in dazzling Chandos sound: the high-octane percussion and brass, and the many softer details, too – the innocent first-movement idea, like gentle rain, and the string tremolo which buoys up a confident, even cocky theme (third movement) in the Fifth Symphony – brought into vivid focus by the sound-engineers of this exclusive label.
Finally, our British pageant comes to a conclusion with an extremely interesting collection of music for wind band, or wind orchestra, played by the Central Band of the Royal Air Force, under their director, Wing Commander Duncan Stubbs. The famous Holst and Vaughan Williams suites appear (and how deeply and solemnly the RAF players deliver the first movement of Holst’s First Suite, Op. 28, No. 1, dating from 1909). Percy Grainger’s Lincolnshire Posy (written just two years before the Second World War) – full of fragrant, salty tunes, and reflective folk-melodies from an old English shire by the North Sea – is a delight; but it is particularly good to see the name of Ernest Tomlinson (b. 1924) represented. His Suite of English Folk Dances was written for a festival of music and dance in 1951 – a time when the avant-garde was beginning to assert itself, but when an English audience still wanted the reassuring sense of home.
Sturdy, catchy tunes from old village processions – suggestive, perhaps, of Hardy’s Wessex, or from a May Day Morris dance in Gloucestershire – are framed by slower-in-pace pastoral tunes, which evoke lonely hills and an English landscape of the heart. Tomlinson’s simple, ancestral melodies nudge at stronger emotions. It is like watching the sun rise on a misty morning near Orford Ness, or enjoying a Romney Marsh dusk, coloured by a haze of pink sunset half-light: the experience, the music truly touches one of those unfathomable parts of the soul.
STUART MILLSON is the Classical Music Editor of Quarterly Review.
ENDNOTES, April Edition
The QR reviews Elgar’s masterpiece, The Dream of Gerontius – and interviews conductor, Ronald Corp, who conducted the performance at St. John’s, Smith Square, with the London Chorus, on 26th March
“This is the best of me…” These were the words of Edward Elgar, the English composer who, in 1899 and 1900, emerged as our country’s most renowned composer with two works, the Enigma Variations and The Dream of Gerontius – a setting of Cardinal Newman’s poem about the journey of the soul – “Jesu, Maria, I am near to death…” and on into heaven and eternity accompanied by an angel. Elgar is sometimes compared to Brahms or Richard Strauss, as an English version of those two Germanic composers, and Gerontius can certainly be likened at least to the idea of Strauss’s symphonic tone poem, Death and Transfiguration. But Elgar’s piece, which often seems operatic, or even in a visionary musical category of its own (rather than a tried-and-tested religious orartorio from the English provinces), uses for its near two hours of performance a large chorus, and three soloists: an English Parsifal, perhaps, or an element of William Langland’s Vision of Piers Plowman in an intensely Roman Catholic form.
The Wagner conductor, Hans Richter – who championed Elgar throughout his life – conducted the first performance on the 3rd October 1900 and described the Worcestershire composer as “…. this English genius”, begging the performers at the 1900 Birmingham premiere to give their very best. Unfortunately, Elgar was plunged into one of his many depressions by the premiere: the performers were, by all accounts, under-rehearsed, and the mystical elation he craved eluded him – at least for a time. How Elgar would have loved to hear recent and modern recordings of his work, not least (for this reviewer) Sir Adrian Boult’s outstanding version with the poised, blazing brass and silky strings of the New Philharmonia Orchestra, caught by the EMI microphones of 1975 on what must have been a day of great form and energy. One hopes that people in 200 years time will still be listening to this music – and understand its tenderness, its awe-inspiring heights (and demonic depths), its Englishness – all projected from Elgar’s own emotional heartland, ridged by the Malvern Hills.
Last month, I discussed these very ideas – the genius of Elgar, of what makes Englishness in music, and whether enough is being done to educate people (particularly the young) in classical music – with the conductor, Ronald Corp OBE, who was at that time preparing for a performance of The Dream of Gerontius with one of his “house” ensembles, the London Chorus. We met at a coffee shop near Regent Street on a cold February mid-morning – Ronald Corp, immediately enthusiastic and very warm and outgoing in manner, plunging into a stream of ideas, answers to my questions, and with some very amusing observations about music and musical life in this country.
A composer himself and a great enthusiast for English music, he has written a lyrical Cello Concerto (conducting his own work alongside the Herbert Howells concerto on the Dutton record label), numerous choral works, motets and very beautifully-realised settings of poetry – some with a strongly contemporary theme. He sees a great bond with Elgar. “Our choir, the London Chorus, was actually formed to give the first complete London performance of The Dream of Gerontius, way back in 1903.* Our founding father was a conductor called Arthur Fagge, a name from the heyday of London musical life in the days of Henry Wood, but which seems to have been forgotten over the years.”
Corp is very much attuned to musical links and connections, and sees a symbolic value in his project with the London Chorus. Despite championing new music, he also expresses some scepticism about certain contemporary trends in the arts: “Our 2015 Gerontius is a return to that heritage of the era of Arthur Fagge and Elgar, and a bond with the past. Too often today, contemporary works that are given just one outing are hailed as ‘masterpieces’ by some in the arts media, and that could be true, but how do we really know until something has stood the test of time? The first performance of Elgar’s work was actually not a resounding success, and yet Gerontius has emerged over more than 100 years as a symbol of the English musical renaissance, and an immense and spiritual work almost unrivalled in the English repertoire.”
Ronald Corp is very active generally in London musical life, having founded the New London Orchestra (which has many fine recordings under its belt – not least a series of British light classics), and also conducting the New London Children’s Choir and the Highgate Choral Society. “I like to think that I run a permanent ‘Three Choirs Festival’,” remarks Ronald, “and I am immensely proud of all that we have done together. During the Diamond Jubilee, for example, we took over the Barbican for a concert celebration of our Queen’s reign, and I conducted the Highgate Choral Society in another Elgar work from the turn of the last century, the Coronation Ode, which was written for Edward Vll. Despite more than a century having elapsed since those works of days of Empire, the greatness of his music speaks much to the audiences of today as it did to those people who lived in the quite different world of Edwardian England.” Ronald was also inspired to write his own patriotic work for this concert, entitled This Sceptr’d Isle – a pageantry-filled setting of the famous speech made by John of Gaunt, from Shakespeare’s Richard ll.
Yet the maestro and his singers are very keen to involve themselves in the pulse of contemporary life. Ronald has also composed a choral work –Things I didn’t say – which explores the difficult theme of Alzheimer’s disease, setting the words of a friend, Steve Mainwaring, which describe in clear, straightforward, everyday language, the gradual realisation that a loved one is beginning to disappear in the fog with which this disease surrounds the recesses of the mind. This was performed in the magnificent setting of St. Martin in the Fields, just at the edge of Trafalgar Square, with the London Chorus taking centre stage.
Ronald Corp also commemorated the anniversary of the First World War, and the pity of war, setting the words of a German poet, Gerrit Engelke, injured in the fighting and defying death, but eventually leaving this world before his time, as the composer explains: “We know so much about Britain’s war poets, and we honoured them fully in our concert, especially in our inclusion of Elgar’s For the Fallen from his Spirit of England, and the setting which we chose for our performance, the Chapel of the Royal Naval College, Greenwich. But little is known about what was going on in the trenches on the other side. I found the words of one German poet, and thought it would be interesting to show the war from another angle. It seems that war tends to have the same effect upon us all. I was very proud that my work formed part of our commemoration for the World War One anniversary.”
But what of music education – why are children not being told about classical music in schools? Why are the names, Elgar and Vaughan Williams, unknown to so many young people – why do they know no hymns or folk-songs? “I – and many others – are trying to counter this, and there are some fine schools and teachers doing great work. But yes, it is a pity, especially when music of every kind is now so easily available. As to folk music, perhaps some of the ideas in some folk-songs, which are by definition old-fashioned and of the countryside, are not liked today – perhaps the idea of a lady or maiden fetching water, or hanging washing on a clothes line upset some people?” An amusing point, which certainly added some laughter to our coffee-conversation!
And so we come to the performance at St. John’s, Smith Square, the conclusion of many rehearsals by the London Chorus and the New London Orchestra. It was clear to this critic and to the enthusiastic audience at St. John’s, that the players had given us a performance of complete integrity, and passion. Live classical music is as much a physical experience, for the eyes of the onlookers, as it is a “listening pleasure”, and throughout Ronald Corp’s evening at the helm of Gerontius, his orchestral players – in their expressions and movements – showed their total immersion in their work. The London Chorus, too, sang with a love of the work that I have seldom seen; and it is clear that their loyalty to Ronald Corp is not in question. They gave him their very best and how they soared and filled St. John’s in the passage which follows the first appearance of the bass (in this performance, the commanding Samuel Evans) – in part one of Gerontius:
“Go in the name
Of Angels and Archangels; in the name
Of Thrones and Dominations; in the name
Of Princedoms and of Powers; and in the name
Of Cherubim and Seraphim, go forth!”
Rising operatic star, Peter Auty, sang the tenor part of Gerontius (who becomes the Soul, in part two of the work) bringing concentration and passion, especially in that passage of swelling power and overwhelming ecstasy which begins with the Angel (a beautifully-clear Madeleine Shaw) singing: “We have now passed the gate, and are within The House of Judgement” – the Soul passionately replying and exclaiming:
“The sound is like the rushing of the wind –
The summer wind – among the lofty pines.”
With such a moment to treasure and savour, it seems ignoble of me to say that during Part One, I felt that Mr. Auty (a truly fine singer) sounded – at times – as though his voice was not truly embedded in the role; and I have to say, that I missed the other-worldly, almost ghostly, Peter Grimes-like delivery of tenor Peter Pears – to my mind, the best Gerontius, and the jewel in the crown of the well-known London Symphony performance on Decca, under the baton of Benjamin Britten. But by the second half, Peter Auty gave what we had all come to hear, the passionate pilgrimage of a soul.
Ronald Corp conducted in a restrained, careful manner – always giving clear baton strokes and cues for his singers and performers: a fatherly, serious, priest-like performance, faithful to Elgar’s Englishness and his religious introspection. With 50 players, the New London Orchestra created a full symphonic sound, but I wondered if, perhaps, the ensembles ought to have been augmented – to give that extra dimension which such a large-scale work deserves, such as in the hammer-blow-like flash of percussion where the Soul sees “the glance of God”? However, the chamber-like delicacy of the front-desk strings of the New London Orchestra came into their own in the beauty of the introduction to Part Two. If we are approaching heaven, then we must also be with Elgar on the Worcester-Hereford border; with music and woodwind interpolations over the hushed strings, conjuring the Elgar and England of The Wand of Youth, or a scene by the Severn in Caractacus. This was playing of great quality by the New London Orchestra, with Ronald Corp seeing not just the great gestures of Gerontius, but the shadows and quiet corners of the church that are found throughout the score.
I attended this performance with my Editor, Dr. Leslie Jones – who shares my enthusiasm for Elgar, particularly this emotional and emotion-provoking piece and we compared notes in due course. This was a Dream of Gerontius, from Ronald Corp and his New London Orchestra and London Chorus that truly came from the heart. As I left St. John’s, breathing in the cool evening air of Smith Square, I felt fulfilled – the mark of a successful concert.
“How still it is!
I hear no more the busy beat of time…”
STUART MILLSON is Classical Music Editor of QR
Notes: * Prior to the first full performance of the work in London, Sir Henry Wood had conducted a performance of the orchestral Prelude to The Dream of Gerontius, and the Angel’s Farewell in an Ash Wednesday concert at The Queen’s Hall. Elgar’s friend, A.J. Jaeger, the publisher wrote in 1901:
“…this morning we went together to Queen’s Hall to hear Wood conduct the Gerontius Prelude and Angel’s Farewell… Wood conducted it with loving care, spent one-and-a-half hours on it & the result was a performance which completely put Richter’s into the shade”.
From Edward Elgar, A Creative Life, by Jerrold Northrop Moore, Oxford University Press, 1984.
Conductor Ronald Corp has made a number of recordings, principally for the Dutton label, including the Herbert Howells Cello Concerto (with Alice Neary, soloist) and the orchestral work, Merry-Eye, and a compilation of music by the American composer, Elinor Remick Warren. His collection of British light classics appears on the Hyperion Label.
ENDNOTES March 2015
In this edition: Treasured Classics from violinist, Devorina Gamalova * Wim Henderickx and his avant-garde collective * Tasmin Little plays French violin sonatas * Elgar from Norway
A former principal violinist of the Neue Elbland Philharmonic Orchestra of Saxony, a teacher at Dresden’s music academy, and a passionate soloist and advocate for music, Devorina Gamalova appears on the Discovery label (accompanied by Bulgarian composer and pianist, Krassimir Taskov – catalogue number, DMV114) in a collection of “treasured classics”. Devorina enchants with her playing, which is never showy or over-forceful, but instead lovingly performs – and re-interprets – dances by Falla and Brahms. She also embroiders and shapes meditations and romances by Saint-Saens and Shostakovich; a Melody by Tchaikovsky, Fritz Kreisler’s Prelude and Allegro, and offers us a lyrical fusion of Bach and Gounod – all in one piece. Sarasate’s Zigeunerweisen, Op. 20 ends the disc, a heady brew of country life, gypsy romance and good tunes from Eastern Europe. When playing this disc, I experienced something which so many listeners – and not necessarily classical listeners – are searching for: the sensation of pure pleasure, ease of listening (which is not quite the same as Classic FM’s trademark of easy listening) and contented enjoyment. Mr. Taskov’s sensitive accompaniments add to the delight of this popular array of music, which as the CD notes suggests, concentrates more on “expression and feeling than on showmanship”.
In complete contrast is a recording of the music of Antwerp-based avant-garde radical, Wim Henderickx, whose work is performed by the HERMESensemble “an artist collective for contemporary music and art”. With the music of John Cage, Morton Feldman and England’s Joby Talbot under their belts – (Joby Talbot achieved acclaim at the Proms in recent years for his dark, Gothic arrangement for full symphony orchestra of Purcell’s Chaconne) – the ensemble’s stated aim is to “open up new artistic horizons”. Recorded at the appropriately named Crescendo Studio, the disc presents: Disappearing in Light(written in 2008), the sub-sections of which are Darkness, Mantra l, Meditation, Mantra ll and Light; Raga lll (from 2010); and the 25-minute-long The Four Elements. It seems that Henderickx began his all-culture-encompassing, frontier-pushing journey at the beginning of this century, when he symbolically sounded a gigantic gong in Bouthanath, in the misty Shangri-la of Nepal’s Himalayas. And elements of Eastern music pervade his atmospheric score, alongside the jagged elements of the soundscapes of Ligeti, the strange and disembodied shouts and chants of the human voice, and all the percussive language of extreme modernism. And yet the violin, flute and viola figure in this work: as if the chamber music of Debussy has been refracted into Henderickx’s particular time and space. An extraordinary experience on what appears to be the HERMESensemble’s own disc, distributed by Launch Music International (code: 8-714835-085669).
Time now for a return to the world of tonality, this time with French violin sonatas, played with effortless, romantic and classical finesse by Tasmin Little, undoubtedly one of the greatest violinists this country has ever produced, and a performer with enormous stage-presence who leads performances, even when some of the best of our conductors are at the helm. Guillaume Lekeu (1870-1894) was, I must admit, a name entirely new to me, so full marks to Tasmin (and her fine accompanist, Martin Roscoe) for bringing this romantic Belgian-born composer – solid, yet capable of producing light and shade – to our attention. Ravel’s Sonata Movement, and the Sonata No. 1, Op. 13 (in four movements) are also here, faithfully recorded at a venue which appears to be increasingly popular for chamber recitals, Potton Hall in East Suffolk. Lekeu, it seems, was a follower of Cesar Franck, and although there is a sense of Teutonic influence in the young composer’s work, it nevertheless seems leavened to some extent by a sense of Frenchness, which Tasmin Little’s loving performance brings to the fore. The first movement, which is expansive, and has a memorable, restated theme, also brought to mind the broad, emphatic style of Tchaikovsky’s violin sonata. A sad twist to the tale of Lekeu: he died at just 24 years of age, from drinking contaminated water. I am certain that the craftsmanship of this composer might, if fate had played out differently, have given rise to greatness.
To England now, or rather, to Norway, with Sir Edward Elgar – under the baton of one of our best Elgarians, Sir Andrew Davis, for so many years synonymous with the BBC Symphony Orchestra and the Proms. Chandos Records (cat. no. CHSA 5149(2)) has brought Sir Andrew to the rostrum of Norway’s Bergen Philharmonic Orchestra, and – ranged behind it – the Bergen Philharmonic Choir, the Edvard Grieg Kor, and the Choir of Collegium Musicum, Bergen; with soloists, Emily Birsnan (soprano), Barry Banks (tenor) and Alan Opie (baritone). The work: Elgar’s Op. 30, his Scenes from the Saga of King Olaf, which dates from 1896.
The historian, David Cannadine in his essay, The Pleasures of the Past, noted that if Elgar had died at the age of 40, his name would, today, live on only in specialist books about English music – his few, mainly choral works given the occasional outing at provincial or esoteric festivals. Elgar was 39 when King Olaf was written (for a festival in North Staffordshire): his masterpiece, the Enigma Variations (championed by the great Wagnerian, Hans Richter) would come three years later. Fortunately, and unlike the Belgian composer Lekeu, Elgar lived quite a long and full life, drawing inspiration from the lanes and hills of Worcestershire, Herefordshire, and (in 1918), Sussex; from a sense of British imperial destiny and history; and from numerous legends, poems, stories from Shakespeare, and sagas from the pen of Longfellow – and it is from the latter that King Olaf derives.
A “blue-eyed Norseman” and a Viking in reverse (Olaf converted to Christianity, was baptised in the Scilly Isles, and later set forth on his expeditions to fight for the new religion with great zeal), the spirit and action of Elgar’s drama almost lends itself to opera. Noble and dramatic ideas pulse through the score, and the choral contributions are exciting and point very definitely to the true majesty that would come in The Dream of Gerontius and The Kingdom. It is always good to hear European orchestras playing English music – and it is worth remembering that when Elgar’s First Symphony was first performed in 1908, the work had a Europe-wide and international following. The international currency of our music seems to have been stronger in the late-19th and early-20th centuries than it is today. But we can only hope that this Chandos production will lead the way in bringing the less well-known music of the British Isles to a wider audience.
As to the performance, it is difficult to find fault with any aspect of what Sir Andrew Davis gives us. The orchestral style of playing in Norway is a little different from the British orchestras; and I – at first – missed the richer “bloom” of sound; that “darker-brown” sound which the London Philharmonic of Sir Adrian Boult and Vernon Handley produced in the 1970s and ‘80s on EMI and at the Royal Festival Hall. The Bergen strings are sharp, astringent, precise, but their brass and percussion soon achieve that Elgarian richness, as the Nordic seas surge, and King Olaf engages in his great battles and causes. The new disc, I am pleased to say, also includes Elgar’s 1897, The Banner of St. George, with words by a fine-sounding Victorian fellow, Shapcott Wensley: the flag of the Saint coming from England’s “misty ages”, with “deathless heroes” and “glorious deeds of old” abounding. These sentiments, say some critics, are completely old-fashioned and outdated – and yet we seem to have no difficulties with Prokofiev’s Alexander Nevsky – the words of which are so blood curdling (those that invade Russia’s towns and fields will be “put to death”) as to make St. George and King Olaf seem quite moderate.
STUART MILLSON is the Classical Music Editor of The Quarterly Review
Next time: More Elgar – a review of The Dream of Gerontius, and interview with conductor, Ronald Corp, whose London Chorus will be centre-stage for this great choral masterpiece. And we also cover an important new recording by the Tallis Scholars of sacred works by Arvo Part.
ENDNOTES, February 2015
In this edition: Clare Hammond records for BIS * Somm issues Sonatas by Prokofiev * Céleste series – Concerti Armonici by Count Unico Wilhelm van Wassenaer.
With many triumphant performances at Kings Place, the Wigmore Hall, and at the Warsaw Autumn International Festival, pianist Clare Hammond is emerging as an influential, original musical force – not least because of her advocacy of contemporary music and neglected repertoire, such as the music of Andrzej Panufnik, and – in a new recording for the Swedish BIS label – six études by the South Korean composer, Unsuk Chin (born 1961).
Clare Hammond’s playing and technique seem so clear, methodical, unhurried, unforced, that to listen to her work – even in the “difficult” circumstances of modern music, with its fiendish torrent of atonality – is a pleasure; because every note is played with such thought and feeling, and attention to detail, and is made to count, especially in the well-chosen acoustic of Potton Hall, Suffolk, the venue chosen by the superb BIS sound engineers. She begins her recital on the disc (catalogue details: BIS 2004) with the late-romantic music of Sergei Lyapunov – three of his 12 Études d’Exécution Transcendante – one written in 1897, the others from 1900. If Lyapunov is unfamiliar to many English listeners, then it might be helpful to think of the works of Rachmaninov – but with a lighter, more folk-like feel; or perhaps as a Russian version of Liszt or Chopin.
In the CD booklet, which is (refreshingly) written by the recording artist (rather than by an onlooker), we discover that Lyapunov was an adherent of the New Russian School, and “in 1893 was commissioned by the Imperial Geographical Society, together with [fellow composer] Balakirev, to gather folksongs from the Vologda, Vyatka and Kostroma regions”. Clare Hammond informs us that: “…only one of his études, the Chant épique, uses a genuine folk melody, the three on this disc are replete with folk-like motifs.” A somewhat different experience awaits us in Clare’s gripping performance of Unsuk Chin’s études, which were not composed at the piano, but the product of the composer’s “aural imagination”. Idiomatic, abstract, resolute and assertive, and taking music into every conceivable dimension (even to that region which some might consider beyond music), this female disciple of Ligeti may yet come to intrigue and fascinate modern audiences – very much in the way Roxana Panufnik carries a torch for contemporary composers. The CD also contains 12 Studies by Szymanowski – that Polish 20th-century romantic, who combines elements of Debussy, Mahler and Scriabin – and Five Études by Nikolai Kapustin, a name unfamiliar to me until I discovered this enriching and stimulating collection.
Peter Donohoe (born in Manchester in 1953) has long been a fixture in British concert programmes and recordings, ever since his triumph at the 1982 International Tchaikovsky Competition in Moscow. He has often performed in partnership with Sir Simon Rattle and the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra (I remember him at the 1983 Proms in Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto – a performance that ended with a great roar of approval from the Prommers). Somm Records has provided Donohoe with a splendid platform for his virtuoso style and love of Russian music, in a new Prokofiev collection (CD 256): Piano Sonatas, nos. 9 & 10, two sonatinas, and the Sonata for Cello and Piano, Op. 119 in C major. For the latter work – just over 20 minutes in duration – Donohoe achieves what must be a perfect realisation of Prokofiev’s emotions, style and state of mind at the end of a productive life, but one spent in the shadow of totalitarianism. The sometimes bare-boned music of the composer took some time “to grow” upon this reviewer, but over the years his work has made more and more of an impression upon me: a feeling of sinister Russian fairytales, orchestral violence, classical elegance (but in a 20th-century context) – and all overshadowed by the terrors and monoliths of the Stalinist Soviet state. It is difficult to conceive how creative, free-thinking men, such as Prokofiev and his fellow composer, Shostakovich, were able to live – either in a day-to-day sense, or at the higher artistic level – in such conditions. But they nevertheless managed to produce a large body of works, symphonies, ballets, operas, chamber music – which might, perhaps, have been less potent had they been nurtured in a liberal society. It is as if their works gathered an extra momentum and power from the very constraints which surrounded them.
The Cello Sonata, in which Donohoe is joined by the great Raphael Wallfisch (a cellist with a passion for contemporary works – and a student of Gregor Piatigorsky) seems to be a work which has escaped the Stalinist monitoring committee, despite being dedicated to Lev Atovmyan of the State Music Publishing House. It consists of three movements of individual feeling, conviction and thought, a powerful, noble voice – and resolute and uplifting in its Allegro ma non troppo conclusion – but a voice approaching the end of its life. The sonata was first performed in Moscow in 1950. Like Stalin, Prokofiev would be dead three years later. Once again, a very fine recording from Somm’s Producer, Siva Oke.
Finally, six Concerti Armonici have appeared on disc (for Somm Records, Céleste series CD 0141) – works which were once attributed to Pergolesi, but which we now believe (thanks to discoveries made by the Dutch musicologist, Alfred Dunning) came from the hand of the aristocratic, artistic diplomat, Count Unico Wilhelm van Wassenaer (1692-1766). Trained as a lawyer, and holding posts in various European capitals, the Count was also a member of the Dutch admiralty and that country’s East India Company. Malcolm MacDonald’s meticulous biographical notes inform us that van Wassenaer’s (serious) sideline was music and musical study, and that he spent time under the tutelage of Quirinus van Blankenburg, a harpsichordist of the early 18th-century.
Each concerto in this elegant collection consists of four short, melodious movements – some spirited, some grave and nostalgic, but all with the charm and finesse of an age of baroque palaces and halls; the culture and world from which Handel, Mozart, Haydn and eventually Beethoven, emerged. A lovely clarity comes from each section, with the Innovation Chamber Ensemble – a band of players from the ranks of the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra – performing with grace and precision, under artistic director, Richard Jenkinson. The instruments and accents, so well-pitched, modulated and blended together, seem to sigh with each reflective mood and moment, and throughout the 56 minutes and 54 seconds of this disc, the listener is transported back to the landscaped gardens of the ancien régime era which van Wassenaer inhabited.
Stuart Millson, Classical Music Editor
ENDNOTES – these he has loved
Stuart Millson presents a seasonal selection
A few favourite recordings… a very personal view, and an end-of-year indulgence
I have always found that the month of December, and in particular, the Christmas holiday, is a good time to settle down and listen to old favourites from my CD and vinyl collection; to retrieve recordings which were bought – and played – with great enthusiasm in the 1990s and early-2000s (Nielsen overtures, a Khachaturian symphony, film music by Georges Auric, Mussorgsky’s Pictures at an Exhibition) and then put back upon the shelves – to be superseded by the next, fresh batch of purchases and review copies. So here is a selection of well-loved items from my collection; personal, indispensable favourites which I would like to share with readers and recommend – either as great interpretations, or as unusual or even eccentric versions which convey (to quote the title of an old Radio 4 programme about music) “the tingle factor”.
To begin with – a most unusual version of Mussorgsky’s evergreen, much-arranged, endlessly-recorded Pictures at an Exhibition. At the 2004 Proms, Leonard Slatkin (the then Chief Conductor of the BBC Symphony Orchestra – and I was there watching and listening) presented the work, but far away indeed from the familiar terrain of the Ravel orchestration. The wander through the gallery began, not with the famous noble trumpet announcement, but with a bewildering and surreal playing of the theme on percussion – the whole orchestra taking the idea up soon after. The orchestrator was one Byrwec Ellison (born 1957), leader of the Fort Worth Symphony Orchestra, and an unusual and unexpected “shaper” of this familiar music. Once out of Ellison’s part of the gallery, we move through a compelling variety of realisations, to the immense finale – The Great Gate of Kiev (a musical portrait of a piece of architecture which was never built, except in music). Nothing prepared me for what I heard in the Royal Albert Hall that night; and the Warner Classics disc (2564 61954-2), taken from the Radio 3 broadcast, still makes me take a deep breath – for “The Great Gate” comes slowly into view through a dark-sounding, deep-voiced male chorus intoning an ancient Russian chant, and then shines out gloriously through clarion brass, shimmering cymbal clashes, and the galvanising, stunning entry of the Royal Albert Hall organ. “The Great Gate” came courtesy of Douglas Gamley, a composer of music for the Hammer Horror film series, and a man clearly capable of the highest, most dramatic expressions of musical impact and drama. The applause from those 2004 prommers certainly adds to the satisfaction that you will find when listening to this remarkable disc.
More Russian romanticism, this time from the Swedish label BIS – and their sublime Rachmaninov cycle, which reaches (at least, for me) a high-point in the form of the Royal Scottish National Orchestra reading of Rachmaninov’s Second Symphony (BIS-CD-1279). Their conductor here is Owain Arwel Hughes CBE, an experienced and passionate advocate of this repertoire, who summons the spirit of the composer in every moment and movement: the melancholy, yearning opening, the hurtling, glittering cascade of notes and vivid, energetic action across the strings in the second movement (evoking from my memory a night-trip by train, many years ago, with a bright sky of stars visible from the carriage). Then comes the famous Adagio, and the elemental barrage of orchestral affirmation at the end – in which Arwel Hughes almost seems to hold one of the last great phrases in mid-air – in suspension – as if to prolong and enhance the grandeur and glory of the finale for just one or two more moments. By any standards, this is an exciting and deeply-felt interpretation.
From the large-scale, to the introspective, I love the delicacy and mysterious tones of Debussy’s chamber works, in particular, his Sonata for Flute, Viola and Harp in three movements, and Cello Sonata (two movements) written at the height of the Great War – works most emphatically of the early 20th century; early, moderate modernism, with the composer’s tenderness felt throughout. Debussy wrote of these works, that they were “… not so much for myself but to give proof, however small it may be, that even if there were thirty million Boches, French thought will not be destroyed.” The Athena Ensemble brings great understanding and classical elegance to these enigmatic creations on a Chandos CD from the mid-1980s – the CD booklet noting the comments of the musicologist Edward Lockspeiser, who viewed the Flute, Viola and Harp sonata as in fact a “triptych of single conception.”
In the days before CDs, I enjoyed the chamber works of Debussy on a vinyl record which I purchased in France in 1981 – the record bearing the label “Musicdisc – Richesse Classique” (catalogue number MU 209). It would take a serious record collector a long time to find this rare item, but I have seldom heard either the sonatas, or the String Quartet (the main item), played so authentically – although the recording quality is not of the highest standard, and is even a little constricted and “crackly”. Fortunately, the wording on the record sleeve was translated into English, although again, not terribly well! However, the writer (unnamed) seems to summarise the record and the repertoire…
“As to the sonatas, which writing extremely refined seems to seal an inner mystery, they constitute the musical will and testament of Debussy. The first-rate interpretation in the most trifling lights and shades is of performers as famous as Bernard Galais and Claude Helffer, specialists of the twentieth century music.”
From the impressionism and warmth of Debussy, to the lands of Northern Lights, legendary warriors and mythical swans: a 1997 recording on the Finlandia label of well-known works by Sibelius, conducted by Sir Andrew Davis – not with his customary band, the BBC Symphony Orchestra, but with the accompaniment of the clear, clean, lithe-sounding Royal Stockholm Philharmonic.
Orchestral mists summon up the spirit of En Saga, The Swan of Tuonela, and the players give their national and emotional-sounding best in the heroic Finlandia, and the Op. 112, Tapiola. But best of all on the collection is the lonely seascape, The Oceanides, a commission from the Norfolk Music Festival in America, at which the composer appeared and conducted on the 4th July 1914. Originally entitled Rondo of the Waves, The Oceanidesis the only tone-poem by the composer not to refer explicitly to a Finnish or Scandinavian myth, but in its nine minutes builds to a great tumult every bit as exciting as En Saga. And so perfectly does it encapsulate the sense of grey seas, skies and supernatural beings materialising and dematerialising in the play of the waves (the Oceanides are sea-nymphs and mermaids), that the work almost seems to bring on a sense of loss in the heart of the listener, when the score darkly ebbs away into the orchestra’s deeper registers, slowly drawing to its close.
In the 1970s, The Oceanides appeared on a classic and vintage BBC film about the life-cycle of the Atlantic salmon, presented by the angler and naturalist Hugh Falkus. Sibelius’s music was used in the final elegiac moments, as the life of the ocean-going salmon ends in the head-waters of the river of its birth. The film – deeply absorbing and beautifully shot – is still available on specialist productions, and I am sure that anyone, including the non-countryman, would find it stimulating and moving, not least because of its use of Sibelius.
Nature-worship formed a very important part of the character of Gustav Mahler (1860-1911), and alongside his Third and Fourth symphonies, his large-scale work for orchestra and two soloists, Das Lied von der Erde (a symphony in all but name, perhaps) represents themes of man and mortality, farewell and withdrawal, but also the exuberance of youth. All of these ideas flower within a heady, regenerative setting of Nature: the sections of the work bearing names such as: Drinking Song of Earth’s Sorrows, The Lonely Man in Autumn, The Drunkard in Spring etc.
Mahler set Chinese poetic texts, taken from a collection of by Hans Bethge, known as The Chinese Flute – although the atmosphere of ancient gardens in the Orient and Chinese music occasionally appears and floats across a typically Austro-German symphonic landscape, a character brought out by the rasping, “dark-brown” brass of the Dresden Staatskapelle on Deutsche Grammophon (DG 453 437-2), under the brilliant Italian conductor, Giuseppe Sinopoli (known in London during his 1980s’ tenure with the Philharmonia). Of all my Mahler collection, Das Lied comes – it seems to me – closer and closer to the meaning of life.
On the subject of Mahler, the English conductor Frank Shipway died earlier this year – a figure that appeared to be something of an “outsider” in British musical life, despite having many great gifts as a conductor, and an appetite for large-scale works – Berlioz, Mahler, Shostakovich. I saw Shipway conduct on two occasions: once at a Sunday night concert of Russian romantic repertoire at the Churchill Theatre, Bromley (in about 1980), and at the Royal Festival Hall in 1984, at the helm of his half-professional, half-amateur London orchestra, the Forest Philharmonic, still based in Walthamstow. In the obituaries which appeared, it seems that the conductor’s maverick manner and his Karajan-like “authoritarianism” provoked mixed feelings from musicians. Sir Colin Davis, for example, was unsure about engaging him at the Royal Opera House, because of an almost 19th-century demeanour (Shipway was said to sweep in like a figure from another age); but for international maestro Lorin Maazel, the Englishman had great potential. He was invited to the U.S., to Maazel’s world-renowned Cleveland Orchestra, and critics reported that: “The night belonged to Shipway”.
However, despite these successes, only a few recordings seem to survive of Shipway’s work, none greater perhaps than a splendid account of Mahler’s Fifth Symphony, recorded in Watford, with the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra (available on TRP 096). To many, this powerfully-realised rendition (the RPO delivering all the sturm und drang associated with Mahler) was a version that came out of the blue – a surprise to many writers and observers. On the RPO’s own label, it remains a unique and treasured part of my Austro-German collection – and I recommend it to anyone who thrills to the great “darkness-to-light journey” of this immense symphonic statement by Mahler – the absolute romantic.
Finally, no Christmas edition of a magazine’s music section is complete without a mention of that central seasonal tradition – Handel’s Messiah. Today, of course, we delight in so many period-instrument renditions: a lighter, darting, more astringent baroque sound, that is so fashionable with audiences. But it is worth remembering the performance style of the 1950s and ‘60s, the years of Sargent and Boult. Decca’s 1961 extracts from Messiah, with the London Symphony Orchestra and Chorus conducted by Sir Adrian Boult (433 637-2) – especially in the final, Worthy is the Lamb – seems to set the heavens ringing, with a solid, well-enunciated, half-operatic, half-English cathedral style of choral singing that would swallow most baroque performances. It is almost as if The Dream of Gerontius has found its way into Messiah, such is the majesty and grandeur of Sir Adrian’s reading. This is a stirring, vintage recording – and a CD which should provide much enjoyment for this season of the year.
STUART MILLSON is QR’s classical music critic
Twenty Years After
Leslie Jones joins a birthday party
The Henschel Quartet with Martino Tirimo, a recital given at St John’s Smith Square on Tuesday 11th November 2014 and broadcast live on Radio 3. Programme; Beethoven String Quartet no 5 in A major, op. 18, no 5: Dvořák, Quartet no 12 in F major, op 96, B, 179 (“American”): Brahms Piano Quintet in F minor, op. 34
The Henschel Quartet are Christoph Henschel, Daniel Bell (violins), Monika Henschel (viola) and Mathias Beyer-Karlshøj (cello)
The Beethoven String Quartet in A major is an early work composed when Beethoven was only thirty. It was something of a surprising choice to open the 20th anniversary concert of this inimitable ensemble. Beethoven at this juncture had not yet discovered his distinctive voice and the composition is indebted to his mentors Haydn and Mozart, especially the latter. Indeed, several of Mozart’s ideas from his own Quartet in A major are incorporated here.
That said there is some satisfyingly intricate material for the lead violin, in this instance Christoph Henschel, especially in the first movement and some compelling exchanges between the violins, viola and cello (including a sort of hurdy-gurdy effect) as they alternately take up the main theme. The performers took full advantage of these opportunities to excel. Yet as Maestro Tirimo observed during the interval on Radio 3, the Henschels are nothing if not a serious, self-disciplined outfit – they are not interested in easily earned applause.
The overall mood of this short piece is upbeat but it becomes decidedly more introspective and pensive in the third movement. There are subtle anticipations here of the lacerating sadness of some of the master’s late chamber music, notably in the String Quartet in A minor, op.132 (“A convalescent’s sacred song of thanks to the Godhead, in the Lydian mode”). The playing throughout was faultless and despite the work’s disconcertingly abrupt end, the performance received warm applause from the attentive audience in this atmospheric venue.
The Henschels obviously took inordinate care to balance this programme. Given that the distinguished pianist Martino Tirimo had elected to perform the epic Brahms Quintet, with its echoes of Brahms’ Piano Concertos, the Henschels second offering, Dvořák’s Quartet in F minor, constituted a welcome contrast. It is a much calmer journey than Brahms’ intense and emotionally exhausting expedition. “It’s lighter”, as Monika Henschel tersely put it.
Indeed, Dvořák’s evergreen Quartet has in places a lilting quality somewhat reminiscent of Mendelssohn’s stirring Scottish Symphony. As in the New World Symphony, Native American, African American and Bohemian colours are vividly evoked, as Martin Handley pointed out in his informative Radio 3 commentary.
Several wistful themes grace this plangent work, completed while Dvořák was staying with the Czech community of Spillville, Iowa, in the summer of 1893. They bespeak his heartfelt nostalgia for his native land. For despite the ample opportunities in New York for such supposedly typical Czech activities as pigeon fancying, train spotting and boozing (the composer was Director of the National Conservatory of Music there from1892-1895) he remained homesick.
“I am satisfied, thank God”, Antonin Dvořák reportedly remarked, on finishing this work. We humbly concur. It has always been a personal favourite.
Concerning Martino Tirimo’s performance in the Brahms Piano Quintet, this versatile pianist who excels across the piano repertoire clearly has a remarkable rapport with the Henschels.
I conclude with a quote from Johannes Brahms himself, “If there is anyone else whom I have not insulted, I beg his [or her] pardon”.
LESLIE JONES is the Editor of QR
edited by Stuart Millson
ENDNOTES, October 2014
In this edition: Rachmaninov, Dohnányi and Strauss from Somm Records * Summer music from Judith Bailey * Sacred choral music from St. John’s College, Cambridge
Although Endnotes has avoided “Discs of the month” and other sales-like descriptions, I feel that the latest recording to arrive from Somm Records deserves some sort of special recognition. Pianist, Valerie Tryon (now aged 80, but as a child, one of the youngest students ever to be admitted to the Royal Academy of Music) appears on a CD devoted to three significant, but less frequently performed works: the Piano Concerto No. 1 (1890-1, revised 1917) by Rachmaninov; Richard Strauss’s Burleske for Piano and Orchestra (1890); and the dramatic, melodious, inventive and thoroughly enjoyable Variations on a Nursery Song (1914) by Hungarian composer, Ernst von Dohnányi (1897-1960).
Accompanied by the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, conducted by Jac van Steen (a Dutch maestro often seen at the Proms, particularly with the BBC National Orchestra of Wales), Valerie Tryon gives a performance of dramatic drive and colour that is never-too-hard, and of romantic, delicate, mood-matching virtuosity that is never-too-overstated. Her tone, her approach to every note, and her clear feeling for this array of late-romantic music seems to be complemented in every way by an RPO sound which seems to “grow” from and around her: the orchestra exuding a warm, euphonious, poised and elegant tone – a weight and a sense of distance and echo, but with clear, sharp brass, and splendid percussion contributions, including a pleasing swish to cymbal clashes, blending into the effortless orchestral wash of colour.
We are familiar, perhaps over-familiar, with Rachmaninov’s Second Piano Concerto, although I much prefer the longer, more thoughtful, more saga-like Third. Rarely does the First Concerto enjoy an outing, and perhaps it is the slightly less “fluent” or sure-footed – less gradually-unfolding nature of the work that accounts for this. The opening, for example, is abrupt, and the piece never quite seems to settle – as is witnessed by the jumpy and nervous, but nevertheless bold announcement of the final movement theme. And yet there are exciting passages and great moments for a great soloist, such as Valerie Tryon, to seize upon: dynamic and attention-grabbing sequences, with all the intensity, passion and also “Russian gloom” that informs all of Rachmaninov’s works.
The Richard Strauss Burleske is also played well, but I must confess to not liking the work as much as anything else on the disc. As Richard Strauss goes, this 20-minute piece does not seem to be particularly characteristic of the composer (we think of his blood-curdling Salome, or the opulent, rich, more 20th-century symphonic writing): in fact, the Burleske could almost be by Liszt, whose inspiration and example were never far away from the younger Strauss. But for sheer individual quality and wit, it is the Dohnányi that crowns Valerie Tryon’s Somm collection: the composer’s Introduzione, statement-of-theme and then eleven variations on the nursery rhyme tune, which we all know and recognise as “Twinkle, twinkle, little star”. At first, the Maestoso opening – as grand as anything in serious, romantic music – makes us believe that we are in the company of a thundering old-school Wagnerian, fond of portentous gestures. And then, a drum stroke (which shakes you), and cymbal clash that crashes out of your speakers and slices into your ears, leads into the soft-in-heart, nostalgic old nursery tune. This moment, with its huge and unexpected contrast… I defy you not to smile! From then on, an absorbing and intriguing virtuoso development and flight of imagination by Dohnányi takes the tune into all manner of allegro or waltz-like manifestations, which recall the styles of other composers. Listen especially to the third variation – marked L’istesso tempo – and you will hear a theme which brings to mind Brahms’s Second Piano Concerto, a charming, beautiful and memorable part. Recorded at the Henry Wood Hall in the July of last year (Recording Producer, Siva Oke, and Engineer, Tony Wass), Somm deserves absolutely full marks for an inspired production.
The Cornish-born composer and former Royal Academy of Music student, Judith Bailey (b. 1941), is undoubtedly one of contemporary music’s lesser-known voices. But I believe that this might well change, as a result of a brand-new CD from EM Records, the recording arm of the English Music Festival. Entitled ‘Havas’ (a native old-Cornish term for a period of summer), the disc allows us to sample a number of landscape scenes, with powerful, historical and mystical associations – Lanyon Quoit (a Neolithic site), The Merry Maidens (a stone circle in the Cornish countryside), and an area of coastal water – Gwavas – said to have healing powers. The orchestral writing is compelling and attractive – and something of the spirit of Bax’s Tintagel finds its way into the score, although I was also reminded of the music of William Alwyn and of his composer-wife, Doreen Carwithen. Judith Bailey’s 17-minute-long Concerto for Orchestra also appears, alongside a sequence of four works by George Lloyd (1913-98) – a fellow Cornish composer, who has long been viewed as a standard-bearer (or a symbol) of the neglected post-war romantic tradition; that time when Stockhausen and the Second Viennese School almost completely eclipsed all those who tried to maintain tonality and British romanticism.
The orchestra used for the recording is the very fine Bath Philharmonia (an ensemble quite new to me) who play in firm, full-bloom, professional style, in Lloyd’s Prelude to Act 1 of The Serf, In Memoriam, Le Pont du Gard (a symphonic impression of the ancient French aqueduct), and the nostalgic, HMS Trinidad March (a tribute to the composer’s old shipmates from World War ll – a work that certainly evokes a sense of past endeavours and the recalling of those times by old comrades). Jason Thornton, who has led the orchestra at many venues throughout the West and South-West of England, conducts the performance.
Finally, Chandos scales the heights of the English choral and organ-music tradition, with twelve works by Thomas Tomkins (1572-1656) – organist and choirmaster of Worcester Cathedral, whose life there, and world of music, faced destruction when Cromwell’s forces occupied the city during the Civil War, and (as Jeremy Summerly’s booklet note observes) “ripped the organ out of the cathedral”. A convinced Royalist, Tomkins clearly saw a connection between the kingdom of God, and the kingdom to which he gave his emotional and political allegiance. A Jubilate (for ten-part choir with organ), a Te Deum (for the same forces) and Magnificat (five-part choir) demonstrate the exceptional vocal training and tradition of the Choir of St. John’s College, Cambridge (Director of Music, Andrew Nethsingha). The anthem, When David heard that Absalom was Slain, conveys a profound sense of mourning, as does the introspective organ piece, A Sad Pavan for These Distracted Times – a lonely lament for the imperilled kingdom, dismantled state and demise of a King. The Editor will forgive me, and I hope, indulge me – if I tell readers that this edition of Endnotes was written on the day of the Scottish referendum.
Stuart Millson is the classical music critic of Quarterly Review
11 March – Northern lights, western winds
Stuart Millson on classical music
An eastern European revelation
The Unknown Enescu – Volume One. Music for Violin
Toccata Classics, TOCC 0047
I first became acquainted with George Enescu’s music on the pre-penultimate night of the 1983 Proms season. Preceding the Liszt Second Piano Concerto and Rimsky-Korsakov’s Scheherazade, was a softly-spoken miniature of grace and elegance: the Prélude à l’unisson et menuet lent, conducted by (Transylvanian-born) Erich Bergel – an interesting, craftsman-like musician whose qualities deserved greater recognition, certainly in England.
Local colour, the vitality of regional dances and a distinctive ancestral accent seem to be characteristic of Eastern Europe’s composers, and Enescu is no exception. Like Bartok and Kodaly, his roots are clearly displayed in his music, but exactly how can you summarise this spirit? Bartok is known for his powerful engine-like rhythms – music that drives forward relentlessly at the very edge of tonality, but then might suddenly stop in a tender moment of memory or folk song. Kodaly’s folk-dances announce themselves in a rich orchestration, as do Enescu’s orchestral Romanian Rhapsodies; but in the composer’s chamber works, it is as though someone is gently ushering you into a salon, held in a well-to-do house or mansion of the Austro-Hungarian empire, or presenting a group of instrumentalists performing for their own pleasure in an open-air setting.
The Unknown Enescu brought me (in my mind’s eye) into those two worlds, almost simultaneously. The disc consists of chamber music of the purest, most natural lyrical quality one could imagine: undemonstrative, yet with a glow of passion in its innermost heart; direct, tranquil, unrushed, yet with a seriousness, too.
This is music for quiet moments, and even when in obvious folk-mood, Enescu gives us not red-blooded riotousness, but sounds that seem wreathed in summer or autumnal light – heart and spirit, and beautiful writing in every passage.
George Enescu was born in Dorohoi, Romania, on the 19th August 1881, and died in Paris in the May of 1955. He studied in Vienna and Paris, and made his debut as a violinist at the age of seven. He taught in the French capital and in Bucharest – and the great virtuoso violinists, Menuhin, Grumiaux, and the brilliant Ida Haendel (a Proms regular – and very fine Elgar interpreter), were among his students. As a composer, Enescu’s output was comparatively small, but he did produce an opera, entitled Oedipe (first performed in 1936), and the body of chamber works which Toccata has assembled on its enterprising label.
Volume One of The Unknown Enescu contains 13 pieces (mainly from the late 19th and early 20th centuries) – works such as Légende, Airs dans le genre roumain, a Prélude and Gavotte, and a Fantasie concertainte. A two-minute Andantino malinconico dates from 1951 – the latest work in the collection, and one of the last works he produced. The disc begins with an Aubade from 1899 – a gentle, slow country-dance form which Enescu penned during a period spent in the Carpathian Mountains; and the accompanying programme notes (the brilliant scholarship of Malcolm MacDonald) identify the “Romanian folklore”, and the “veins of Impressionism” and Fauré-like aristocratic intricacy” which shape and inform his style.
My personal favourite, though, is the Serenade Lointaine, of 1903, written for the wedding anniversary of the King and Queen of Romania – the Romanian royal family bestowing great patronage on Enescu throughout his life. In its four-and-a-half minutes, the work brings the romantic hue of Tchaikovsky to mind, with touching, heartfelt (almost melancholy) melodies and phrases, yet with the classical economy and facility of J.S. Bach – a composer venerated by the Romanian.
The recording is, as one would expect from Toccata, of the highest quality: there is clarity, “air” and almost a sense of friends just gathering and playing for the pleasure of it. The sound of the instruments is captured in such a way, as to create an immediate, concert-hall presence and chamber-music proximity – as if you are sitting in the front rows of the Wigmore Hall itself, although the recordings were made in Broadcasting House, Bucharest, and at the University of Illinois. And the standard of playing from Enescu’s dedicated exponents, the pianist, Ian Hobson, and cellists Marin Cazacu and Dmitry Kousov, to name but three, seems to be perfection itself. For those who know only the Romanian Rhapsodies, or who have never heard a note of Enescu’s music, the chamber works collected on this CD are a revelation – and a true delight for the romantic-of- heart and the serious-of-mind.
Stuart Millson is the Quarterly Review’s Music Editor
Stuart Millson on classical music
From ancient mountains and dales…the life and music of Arwel Hughes
We tend to think of British music, and the landscape of the British repertoire, as belonging to the world of composers such as Elgar, Vaughan Williams and Britten – all Englishmen. But imagine, if you will, not a traditional, visionary Southern English landscape, but the valleys of Cardiganshire, the crags and peaks of Snowdonia, and the ruined castles and spate-rivers which can be found throughout the land of Wales. The silences (save for the sound of the wind and sea, and the piercing cry of buzzards circling on high pillars of warm air) make the wild Welsh landscape a place of legend, poetry and brooding thoughts; and it is from these surroundings that another school of British music may be found and appreciated, the school of the 20th century Welsh romantics and romantic-modernists: Alun Hoddinott, William Mathias, Daniel Jones, Grace Williams, and Arwel Hughes.
For Hoddinott, Welsh landscape and lore provided a huge source of inspiration, but his work also included pieces that stood alone from “Welshness” and demonstrated a pure, contemporary appeal, such as The Sun, the Great Luminary of the Universe (recorded by the London Symphony Orchestra and David Atherton – a specialist in 20th century music). Mathias and Daniel Jones are known for their symphonies (Jones also achieving note as a prolific writer of string quartets), and Grace Williams for her Sea Sketches and Fantasia on Welsh Nursery Rhymes, but it is the name of Arwel Hughes that might be less familiar to music-lovers – certainly to an English audience. The time has now come to rediscover British music, to understand it through its Welsh voice, and in particular, to hear and love the beautiful compositions of Arwel Hughes, the quiet magus of Welsh music.
Arwel Hughes was born in 1909, in the mining village of Rhosllannerchrugog, near Wrexham. The closeness of Welsh communities is one of the great characteristics of that nation, and Arwel Hughes’s background was one shaped by family, by the kindness of a very musical elder brother, and by the nonconformist, Baptist traditions of the people. Yet that world of self-containment need not be inward-looking, and it was clear that the musical talents of the young Arwel Hughes would propel him toward an academic musical career of the highest quality. His son, the conductor Owain Arwel Hughes, wrote of those early years:
“My father was a highly-gifted keyboard player from a very young age, quite astonishing when one thinks of his upbringing as the tenth and youngest child of a mining family with no musical heritage whatsoever. He went to the Royal College of Music to study composition and organ, a courageous decision, not to say a huge financial burden considering his background.”
And what a step it proved to be for the young Welshman alone in London, as Owain Arwel explained.
“My father studied composition under that musical giant Ralph Vaughan Williams, whose influence was profound not only as an inspiring teacher but also as a gentle, caring father figure…”
Vaughan Williams was not the only luminary to influence Arwel Hughes: other tutors included Gordon Jacob (who arranged Vaughan Williams’s English Folk-Song Suite), and the great Gustav Holst – and it was not long before the student from North Wales was absorbed into the English High Church musical tradition, as an organist and choirmaster at the Church of St. Philip and St. James, Oxford. In 1935, the chance came to return to Wales in a role for the BBC, that of Studio Assistant at the Corporation’s offices in Cardiff – the prelude to a successful career that was to last until 1971, when Arwel Hughes retired from the post of Head of Music.
During the long span of those BBC years, Arwel Hughes devoted much time to championing his fellow Welsh composers, and it has been said that this generosity of spirit may have interrupted his own progress as a writer of symphonic works. However, time was found in the evening to compose, and there is no doubting the natural inspiration and gift for momentum, mood and melody at the heart of Arwel Hughes’s wide output. It is also worth noting that this quiet and unassuming administrator (alongside his Welsh BBC colleague, the conductor, Mansel Thomas) gave us one of the country’s much-loved television institutions, Songs of Praise… Dechrau Canu, Dechrau Canmol was a Welsh programme devoted to community hymn-singing, and it was always Arwel Hughes’s desire to see music – whether religious, or otherwise – actively touch the hearts and daily lives of ordinary people. The formula was taken up by the English BBC – and how fitting that the show should have been presented by that great Welshman, Sir Harry Secombe!
Possibly Arwel Hughes’s best-known piece is the highly-accessible oratorio, Dewi Sant (Saint David), commissioned as a Welsh contribution to the 1951 Festival of Britain. For soprano, tenor, baritone, chorus and large orchestra, the work begins with a flourish –
“Praise the Lord for all of His saints
Praise the Lord for David our Patron…”
Straightforward and a showpiece for a Welsh choir, the opening section then gives way to a meditative pastoralism, every bit as touching as the English masses and impressionism of Vaughan Williams and Howells:
“Who’ll bring his sickle to the yellowing wheat and his scythe to the meadow at morn?/
Who’ll come to burn the tares that choketh the rip’ning corn?”
But also some blood-stirring lines for chapel-going Welsh patriots are included:
“In Cymru’s vineyard the tree was planted;
Fed were its roots with the blood of the martyrs,
Beneath its bloody branch is shelter,
Find refuge and rest in the arms of the Saviour,/
For on this precious tree doth grow the leaves to heal the nation’s woe.”
The words for Dewi Sant were written by Arwel Hughes’s fellow countryman, the poet, Aneurin Talfan Davies, and the work was first performed at that great shrine to Celtic Christendom, St. David’s Cathedral, Pembroke, on the 12th of July in that momentous Festival of Britain year.
Another well worked-out piece – finely-structured, again accessible yet with a deep saying – is the comparatively early Fantasia in A Minor, for strings (1936). It is a piece of “absolute music” – music for music’s sake, although if it has a sense of Cambrian identity, the Welshness is one of impressionism and shadow. The composition is immediately appealing: a quiet, slow introduction, and the gradual gathering of energy, to achieve the soaring, intense statement on strings to be found in Vaughan Williams’s Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis, in parts of Herbert Howell’s Elegy for Viola and Strings – or in the introspection of Britten’s Lachrymae for viola and strings.
More obviously Welsh themes appear in Arwel Hughes’s Owain Glyndwr (from 1979), Anatiomaros (“Great Soul”) (1943), his Prelude (in part, a miniature non-choral requiem) “To the Youth of Wales” from 1945, and an opera, inspired by folk legends, entitled Menna – a spirit in operatic writing, reminiscent of the English composer Rutland Boughton’s ancient Arthurian and mystical dramas, or of Delius’s Irmelin. Apart from the whole of Menna (which has received at least one studio performance by the BBC Concert Orchestra), all of the Arwel Hughes works mentioned in this article have appeared on record,* under the baton of the composer’s son – and it is gratifying to know that the innovative Swedish record label, BIS, has provided such a wonderful opportunity for Arwel Hughes’s music to reach a much wider audience. Performed by Camerata Wales and the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, the BIS compact discs offer unique interpretations, and represent a rare discovery of work which should be at the very centre of British musical life.
There is one stirring piece that has not, as yet, been recorded for posterity. Written especially for the Welsh Proms at St. David’s Hall, Cardiff (a concert series founded in 1986 by Owain Arwel Hughes), it is that national favourite – God Bless the Prince of Wales. A magnificent arrangement of a traditional hymn of praise to Wales and its Prince, Arwel Hughes conceived the work as a Welsh version of Jerusalem – something noble and heroic for a Celtic audience to sing at the end of their promenade concerts. With its evocations of “ancient mountains and lovely dales”, and the spirit of the people who dwell there, a nostalgia – or sense of hiraeth – fills the concert-hall.
It is difficult to understand why the works of this pupil of Vaughan Williams and master in his own right should be in any way rare, or unfamiliar. But perhaps, the dedicated work of the composer’s son will succeed in bringing Arwel Hughes to the central position in our cultural and concert life which he richly and truly deserves.
Stuart Millson is the Quarterly Review’s Music Editor
* Only the Prelude to Menna appears on disc.
The BIS record label has recorded the Fantasia in A Minor, and orchestral works such as Anatiomaros and Owain Glyndwr on two finely-engineered and presented CDs. The catalogue numbers are: BIS-CD-1589 (for the Fantasia) and BIS-CD-1674 (orchestral works). The oratorio Dewi Sant appears on the Chandos record label, no. 8890. All works are conducted by Owain Arwel Hughes CBE.
More details on the life of Arwel Hughes can be found in Owain Arwel Hughes’ autobiography, My Life in Music, published by the University of Wales Press.