Arnold Bax: Peter Pan of Music Part I

During the 1920s, the music writer D.C. Parker was known professionally as Douglas Charles Parker, a distinguished music critic for the Evening Times in Glasgow, Scotland. From 1919 to 1934, he held this role, contributing insightful commentary on the musical life of the city. An enthusiastic amateur musician, Parker wrote extensively on the works of Wagner, Elgar, and 19th-century French composers. His collected papers are preserved at the National Library of Scotland, including an autobiography that recounts his experiences within Glasgow’s music scene, along with correspondence with notable composers such as Jules Massenet and Camille Saint-Saëns.

Completed in Glasgow, on 1 April 1922, the following word portrait was published in Musical America, 22 April 1922, p.5. Dates of compositions have been included in the text.

There are people who constantly bewail the passing of the “good old days.” In their youth the sun shone more brightly, rheumatism was not so prevalent, living was cheaper and easier, the wheels of life moved more smoothly. Distance, perhaps, lends enchantment; recollection is sweet; man loves to chew the cud of remembrance, dwelling on the time when all was young and pleasant. Or it may be that the veteran, his psychic disposition changed, as Croce would say, thinks the east wind more of a wind, and decidedly more deserving of the adjective today than it was of yore, In any case, it is good to be able to sound a cheerful, contrasting note at times. This note, I think, can safely be sounded by anyone who realizes how much progress has been made in the sphere of creative music in England during the last decade or so. To-day several of the younger men are busy with their pens, and in many cases the result of their activity repays the music lover who troubles to study it.

Among these younger men a place must be allotted to Arnold Bax who was born in 1883, studied at the Royal Academy of Music, and has since his student days composed a very considerable quantity of music. His list of works includes the orchestral poem The Garden of Fand, (1916) November Woods (1917) for orchestra, Sonata for Violin and Piano in E [No.1] (1920+revisions), Quintet for Strings and harp (1919) , String Quartet [No.1] in G (1918), a Piano Trio (1907), an [Elegiac] Trio for flute, viola, and harp (1916), several choral works, two of which are settings of old carols, many piano pieces and songs, Moy Mell, (1916) an Irish tone poem for two pianos, and arrangements of old songs. He also provided the music or Sir James Barrie’s The Truth about the Russian Ballet, which was produced at the London Coliseum, with Karsavina as the chief figure, in 1920.

It will be generally agreed that the music of Bax shows its composer to be one of pronounced individuality. Emerson promulgated a theory that, in order to get the best out of himself, a man must obey his own bias. I think it may be said for Bax that he follows this precept. It has been observed that his music presents two definite aspects; that in him we encounter the thoughtful, the dreamy, the cloud-enfolded; and, in stirring contrast to this, the virile, the exhilarating, and the vivacious. But these visions, whether of an autumn day in some far off Lyonesse, or of a spring morning when “the hillside’s dew- pearl’d,” [1] strike us as revealing in equal measure an essential part of the artist. If he can catch the mood and atmosphere of that shadowy world known to Fiona Macleod [2] and W. B. Yeats, he can fill his lungs, and kick his heels high in such a thing as the Burlesque (1920) for piano, and thoroughly enjoy the rough merriment of the Gopak (1912).

Those who scrutinize Bax’s work will recognize that he has an excellent technique. He employs a modern idiom, but not because it is the right thing to do. He employs it because it is adequate for his needs, and he therefore employs it without self-consciousness. His music owes a great deal to its harmonic interest, and to its rhythmic variety. Again and again, in scanning his compositions, one is caught by some arresting felicity that gives ample evidence of its creator’s harmonic imagination. If, as I have said, this feeling for the right thing contributes generously to the value of his music, it is because mechanical reiteration is evidently anathema to him. When he returns to some statement which he has already made, he is fully equal to clothing it in a new dress. We see this in such a simple effusion as the Shieling Song (1908), and we have evidence in more than one of his arrangements of old melodies. In a short article it is impossible to do more than touch on points very briefly. Yet, perhaps, it ought to be said that his harmony impresses one as having its justification in the light it throws upon the theme, or in atmosphere it creates; it is not simply a matter of playing chess with combinations of notes. As for the rhythmic variety, there will be little hesitation in allowing this to Bax. There are times and places when and where he stoutly challenges the tyranny of the jogtrot.

Although a modern composer, Bax is not one of those extremely up-to-date people who have only a curl of the lip for the past. The testimony reposes in his free arrangements of traditional songs of France, as in his Mater ora Filium (1921) (a choral from a manuscript at Balliol College, Oxford, for unaccompanied double choir), and its neighbour, Of a Rose I Sing a Song (1920), a fifteenth century carol set for small choir, harp, ’cello, and double bass. The editing, or arranging, of old melodies is an act about which one may be permitted to have strong opinions. To put the matter in a nutshell, it might be said that the resourceful and quick-witted musician. finds many an old example unbearable when the melody, however good of itself, is supported by thin and commonplace harmonies. He longs, very naturally, for something more pungent; he feels that the appeal could very well be strengthened if the setting were richer, fuller, and more distinguished. And the feeling encourages him to see what he can do with some folksong, or other. Work of this nature requires not only a musician, but a diplomatist. The utmost discretion must be brought to bear upon it. To dress up naive and rustic songs in the extreme fashions of modernity is to clothe the peasant in silks and satins, and to give the dairymaid high-heeled shoes; with the result that we hardly recognize either peasant or dairymaid.

As a general principle, we hold that the composer should be content with simplicity. He ought, certainly, to remember the period from which the examples he turns to came; he ought to dwell upon their spirit. In his arrangements, of these traditional songs, Bax has been more insistent upon the spirit than upon the letter. But it seems to me that, in the main, he hits the happy medium. He has taken those songs; he has bestowed upon them an additional significance for the hearer of to-day. He carries this out with sympathy and cleverness. In a word, he has sprinkled upon them just enough pepper to bring out the taste. The carols deserve the careful consideration of choir conductors. We have here to deal with a man who knows how to get his effects. In the unaccompanied example, which starts simply and works up to an elaborate climax, there is some excellent contrapuntal writing. In the other, the original theme is handled without undue complexity, while the passing touches of colour imparted by the instruments, wisely chosen and written for with the utmost tact, prove very happy. These specimens of Bax’s workmanship are enough to convince us that his claim to be considered a composer of parts is not based on a slender foundation.

Notes:
[1] From English poet’s Robert Browning’s Pippa Passes.
[2] Fiona Macleod was the feminine pseudonym of William Sharp, a Scottish writer whose mystical, Celtic-inspired prose and poetry helped shape the late 19th-century Gaelic literary revival.

To be concluded…

Francis Edward Bache: Piano Concerto in E major op.18 (1851)

Francis Edward Bache (1833-1858) was a pupil of William Sterndale Bennett. These two composers have quite different biographies but were similar in their music and in the reception accorded to it. Common wisdom suggests that Sterndale Bennett’s compositional career peaked early on, and a life spent teaching music did not allow him to repeat his youthful triumphs. Bache on the other hand quite simply showed great promise and then died early – from tuberculosis. Bache may not have been in thrall to Sterndale Bennett’s musical ethos, but it was certainly influential.

There is quite a large body of work by Bache in existence including some three piano concertos. Yet little reference is made to these compositions in musical literature: Bache’s sister Constance does not discuss this work or the other concerted pieces in her biography of the composer. 

He is usually remembered - if at all - for his Songs op.16. One teasing anecdote about the composer is that as part of his convalescence he went to live in Torbay. Whilst there he wrote two sets of Souvenirs based on musings from his peregrinations – à la Liszt’s Années de Pèlerinage. One, hardly surprisingly, describes Italy but the other looks odd in print – Souvenirs de Torquay! Surely a desideratum for all enthusiasts of English piano music! 

In his three movement Piano Concerto in E major op.18 (1851) we have an excellent work – certainly, no-one would claim that it was an essay of enormous originality or that the composer aspired to great genius. But the work has what it takes. It is full of interest, charm, and fine pianism and most important of all – lovely tunes. I could not help thinking about the music from Gilbert & Sullivan’s operas as I listened to this work - especially the faster themes. That may put some people off this work – but all I mean to imply by the comparison is that Bache has such a fund of invention for his melodies. And, like the later Sullivan, they sparkle! It is easy to see references to his teacher, Sterndale Bennett, but it is the meditative or reflective nature of much of this music that leads me to rate this concerto so highly. It perfectly balances exuberance and contemplation: it inspires and it moves – what more can a listener ask? 

Francis Edward Bache’s Piano Concerto in E major op.18 can be heard on Hyperion: The Romantic Piano Concerto Volume 43, HYPERION CDA67595. It can be heard on YouTube, here.

With thanks to MusicWeb International where some of this material was first published.

Nocturnes and Nerves: Debussy’s Curious Afternoon in London

In a recent post, I gave J.C. Squire’s account of a performance of Claude Debussy’s Nocturnes conducted by him on 27 February 1909. This recalled the composer’s pallid face and dramatic reaction to a musical error. One mistake provoked fury - revealing the torment of artistic perfectionism amid ephemeral sound.

At the time London concertgoers were responding to an impressionist fascination, and were ready for his works, already cherished among Promenade favourites. Squire’s memory blended ancient landscape with modern symbolism, evoking contemplative piano pieces and the haunting beauty of Pelléas et Mélisande.

Legend and conductor Herny Wood recalled the event in his informative autobiography My Life of Music, originally published in 1938. Debussy’s 1909 Queen’s Hall concert featured the Nocturnes, but during Fêtes he lost his beat and tried to stop. The orchestra refused, performing flawlessly. The audience applauded warmly, prompting a repeat. Debussy was baffled, yet proud - leaving with admiration and a story to ponder.

Wood remembered:

In fact, nothing could have been happier for all of us; we liked him, and he liked us. So that when Newman suggested a return visit to Queen’s Hall on February 27, 1909, he was more than willing to come. We repeated L’ Aprés Midi because of the ovation it had received the previous year, but instead of La Mer we produced the three Nocturnes, Smallwood Metcalfe’s Eastbourne choir [1] undertaking the choral part in Sirénes.

Again, I had rehearsed the orchestra until there was practically nothing left for Debussy to do. The rehearsal went off smoothly enough but at the concert there was a peculiar accident. I do not remember ever witnessing anything quite like it. In the second of the Nocturnes (a movement called Fétes) the time changes a good deal. To the surprise of all of us, Debussy (who, quite candidly, was not a good conductor even of his own works) suddenly lost his head, and his beat! Realizing what he had done, he evidently felt the best thing was to stop and begin the movement over again. He tapped the desk and tapped again. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. The orchestra refused to stop. It really was an amazing situation. Here was a famous composer directing a work of his own and, having got into difficulties, was asking the orchestra to stop and was being met with refusal. They obviously did not intend to stop: they knew that the audience would think the fault was theirs. Moreover, the work (which they liked immensely) was going beautifully and they meant to give a first-rate performance of it; which they proceeded to do and succeeded in doing. I never knew them more unanimous. The audience by no means missed the fact that something had gone wrong because it was so evident that he had tried to stop the orchestra. At the end, in truly English fashion, they recorded their appreciation to such an extent that he was compelled to repeat the movement. This time nothing went wrong, and the ovation was even greater than before. Debussy was non-plussed and certainly did not understand the English mind; but I was proud of my orchestra that afternoon and had the satisfaction of seeing that he had been proud to conduct it. “They wouldn’t stop!” he told me in the artist’s room after-wards; I fancy he went back to 

Paris with something to think about.

Henry Wood, My Life of Music, 1938, p.228f

Notes

[1] A distinguished vocalist and teacher, Smallwood Metcalfe (1868-1918) trained under his uncle, William Smallwood and at the Royal College of Music. He made his London debut in The Marriage of Figaro at the Royalty Theatre (1892) and was later a featured soloist at the Queen’s Hall Promenade Concerts (1904–06). For fifteen years he directed a choir in Eastbourne, establishing the Smallwood Metcalfe Concerts, which led to his appointment by Sir Henry Wood as chorus-master for Queen’s Hall, Nottingham, and Wolverhampton. He subsequently founded the Smallwood Metcalfe Choir, noted for its unaccompanied performances and London subscription series.

William Sterndale Bennett: Piano Concerto No.4 (1838)

For far too long it has been the lazy person’s view to assume that all early nineteenth century British music was influenced solely by Handel and Mendelssohn, important to the national musical life as these composers were. Whenever a piece of British music from this era is heard, people shake their heads and smile wryly. Of course we do not expect to find the towering giants to match the Liszts, the Chopins and the Wagners of the Continent but to categorise all Early Victorian English music as being either derivative or a pastiche of the above mentioned exemplars, is wrong-headed and does not do justice to the facts. A more nuanced view reveals that there were allegiances to Rossini, Spohr, Gounod, Brahms, Wagner, and Dussek as well as the two named above. Furthermore, a lot of British music of this period owed much to the London Piano School which included Cramer, Clementi, and Moscheles. And lastly, some of these British composers had a few jolly promising ideas of their own!

In a cynical yet perceptive commentary from 1964, Geoffrey Bush offered five reasons - each tinged with irony - for the neglect of William Sterndale Bennett’s music in modern times. First, Bush noted the unfortunate fact of Bennett’s nationality: he was English, and thus subject to the longstanding ambivalence with which English composers were often regarded. Second, he was a Victorian, a label that in musical circles frequently carried the weight of stylistic conservatism and cultural unfashionability. Third, Bennett had written an oratorio titled The Woman of Samaria, a work that, by its very subject and form, seemed to embody the earnest religiosity and moral didacticism of its era. Fourth, he held the post of Professor of Music at Cambridge - an academic distinction that, paradoxically, may have contributed to perceptions of his music as dry or overly institutional. And finally, Bush suggested that Bennett was, at best, a second-rate imitator of Mendelssohn, lacking the originality or brilliance to transcend his influences. Amusing though these observations may be, they reflect a broader unease with Bennett’s place in the canon - a composer caught between national pride and stylistic dismissal.

It is not my intention to demolish these reasons one by one – although I guess he could not help being born English! But Bush clearly shows the sheer unthinking prejudice that has surrounded Sterndale Bennett and by implication any who were associated with him. For many decades it was intellectual suicide to say that you liked a piece of music written by this ‘pedant’ who did not have an original note in his head.

Sterndale Bennett wrote at least five piano concertos, and it is with these that he established his reputation in both London and Germany. However, to most musicologists and reviewers - that will admit it - the Fourth is his magnum opus.

I have known Sterndale Bennett's Fourth Piano Concerto since I heard the version by Malcolm Binns with the Milton Keynes Chamber Orchestra (Unicorn-Kanchana UKCD 2032, 1990). This concerto has been a favourite of mine since then: if I am honest, I rate it higher than many examples of the genre written on the continent at that time – including at least one of those by Mendelssohn!

In October 1838 Sterndale Bennett returned to Leipzig, taking with him the new Concerto in F minor. The first and the last movements were newly devised, but the middle one was a rehash of an earlier Pastorale. Mendelssohn did not like this arrangement and prevailed on the composer to substitute another piece. Sterndale Bennett provided the present Barcarolle which suitably impressed the German. The change was made, and the complete Concerto was performed on 17 January 1838 in Leipzig with Mendelssohn conducting.

There is no doubt that this is a splendid work. Most people, justifiably, regard the middle movement Barcarolle as the highlight; it is exquisite. Yet, it would be wrong to cherry-pick this part of the piece. The first movement is full of striking ideas and in places, sheer poetry, and beauty. And the ‘presto agitato’ bristles with interesting music that impresses from the first note to the last. It is a splendid and often moving work that ought to be popular if concertgoers were given the chance to hear it.

Listen to Howard Shelley playing William Sterndale Bennett’s Piano Concerto No.4 on YouTube. I: Allegro con maesta, II: Barcarole. Andante cantabile e con moto and III: Presto. Agitato. The BBC Symphony Orchestra is conducted by the soloist. It was released on Hyperion CDA67595 (2007)

An edited version of a review published on MusicWeb International, 7 November 2007.

Echoes of England, Music, and Mischief: Debussy’s 1909 Concert in London

J.C. Squire was a spirited figure in early 20th-century British literary circles - part poet, part critic, part cricket enthusiast. Born in Plymouth in 1884, he studied history at Cambridge and quickly made a name for himself with witty parodies and sharp reviews. He was a key player in the Georgian poetry movement, favouring traditional forms and lyrical style over the experimental trends of modernism. His own verse, often satirical or nostalgic, reflected a love of English countryside and classical themes.

Squire edited the influential London Mercury from 1919 to 1934, shaping literary tastes and championing emerging writers. He also wrote under the pseudonym Solomon Eagle, offering biting commentary in the New Statesman. Though his popularity waned as poetic fashions shifted, he remained a spirited voice in literary debates.

Outside the written page, Squire was known for his cricket team of literary ‘Invalids’ (made up of men who had been injured during the First World War) and his fondness for beer and banter. Knighted in 1933, he lived a colourful life that blended intellect with irreverence. J.C. Squire died in 1958. His collected poems were published posthumously in 1959, with an introduction by John Betjeman.

Sir John Squire’s The Honeysuckle and the Bee (1937) is a memoir disguised as a leisurely walk from London to Devonshire, where the journey meanders through memories rather than miles. Eschewing chronology, Squire lets recollections surface spontaneously – an inn conversation conjures Mussolini, a glimpse of Bath recalls Irish journalist and politician, T.P. O’Connor’s gossip, and a Cardiff tramp who ranks Keats alongside the English novelist Marie Corelli. The book is populated with a whimsical cast: Sibelius, Rupert Brooke, Schoenberg, beetles, and bar-room philosophers, all drifting in and out of the narrative like figures in a dream.

The charm lies not in structure but in tone - gracious, nostalgic, and distinctly English. Squire’s reflections evoke countryside lanes, hearty meals, and eccentric characters met along the way. When the final page turns, what lingers is not a timeline but a mood: of good talk, gentle landscapes, and the “rolling English road” that winds through memory as much as geography.

Squire writes here about a concert given by the Queen’s Hall Orchestra on 27 February 1909. The audience heard Beethoven’s Coriolan Overture, Siegfried’s Funeral March from Wagner’s Götterdämmerung and Brahms’s Violin Concerto, with Henri Marteau as the soloist. These were conducted by Henry Wood. Debussy conducted his own L’Après mid d’un Faune and the Three Nocturnes.

The author begins his description of the concert, by reminding the reader that he had been walking from Wells to Glastonbury, past the Tor…:

“The Tor with its monument can be seen all the way, and the expectation of that ancient place felt. But, as I cast my eye to east and west, and thought of the antiquity of the land, the pallid and urban, tense, and bearded face of Debussy came between me and the fields and hills; for I had once seen him. One thing leads to another. It was some day in the lost time before the war, and at the Queen’s Hall, that Debussy appeared to conduct a concert of his own works. The place was full, and somebody had taken me to a box whence the conductor’s face could be seen in profile. The year I do not know, nor whether it was after or before that first production of Pelléas et Mélisande at Covent Garden, [1] a perfect marriage of words and music which seems to memory to have been one monotony of pale arms under dark trees by old crumbling towers or in torchlit cavernous corridors, with wan voices lamenting over an existence in which the blind lead the blind from one dread enigma to another.

At any rate, L’Apres midi d’un Faune had for some years been familiar to the adherents of Sir Henry Wood, [2] joining that company of popular favourites, such as 1812, Finlandia, L’ Apprenti Sorcier, the Casse-Noisette Suite [3] and the tone-poems of Richard Strauss, which still stoutly hold the Promenade fort to-day. For some years, fascinated by what seemed the revolutionary extension of symbolism and impression from literature to music (for music crossed the Channel slowly then), young women, with mildly Socialist opinions and hair parted Madonna-wise, had been yearningly playing, in the candle-lit, brown-paper-walled drawing-rooms of Hampstead and Chelsea, those wistful. Mysterious piano pieces about cathedrals under the sea and rain falling on places that never were, full of the sound of elfin horns, muffled bells and little winds wandering about the whole tone scale. [4] At any rate, London was ready for him.

The place was packed, and the orchestra crowded in their serried tiers; amid a roar of applause Debussy stepped down to his desk, and the impression his face and mien made on me was unforgettable, there was such an intensity about him. He stood rigidly and his head was black and ivory, a wave of black hair falling over his right brow, his moustache and beard black, his face chiselled in ivory - deep sunken eyes with shadows under them, hollow shadowed cheeks, set mouth - a face bearing the marks of illness, of incessant labour, of passionate exactitude.

After a few bars of one of the “items ” (perhaps the first, but certainly one of those short pieces such as Nuages, Fétes and La Mer) [5] his face suddenly contorted, he flung his baton on the ground, and simultaneously spat out some expression, undoubtedly contumelious, but inaudible in detail and probably incomprehensible to the orchestra, who were English. There was a pause as heart-stopping as a scream; and then the audience rustled like reeds. An appalling mistake had been made. Somebody, let us say the tenth bassoon, had either missed a note, played the wrong note, or played the right note in the wrong place. If that unhappy instrumentalist is still alive I daresay he is the only man except myself who remembers the disaster.

But I remember also, when the baton had been resumed, the pale face composed, and the piece started all over again, thinking to myself, “How dreadful it must be to take things so seriously! And, my unhappy genius, who on earth in the audience would have noticed or minded such an error in such a shimmering tissue of sound any more than he would notice in a reproduction of a landscape by Monet if one pale pink spot had appeared in a corner instead of one pale green one.

Sir John Squire, The Honeysuckle and the Bee, Evergreen Books, 1940, p.212f

Notes
[1] The premiere of Debussy’s opera Pelléas et Mélisande at Covent Garden was given on 21 May 1909.
[2] Henry Wood had conducted the first performance of L’Apres midi d’un Faune on 20 August 1904 during a Promenade Concert at the Queen’s Hall.
[3] By Jean Sibelius, Paul Dukas and Pyotr Tchaikowsky, respectively.
[4] Patronisingly refers to Debussy’s Preludes published in 1910.
[5] Probably Squire meant to write Sirènes, the third movement of the Three Nocturnes. The mistake referred to in the text, occurred during Fétes.

Christian Darnton: Piano Concerto in C major

This composer was an unknown quantity to me, and I imagine for many other listeners as well. However, the Piano Concertino in C Major is a fine example of the genre. It was written in 1948 for the South African pianist Adolf Hallis. In fact, it was premiered in Durban on 19 April the following year.

Christian Darnton (1905-81) was a British composer whose early promise and privileged upbringing sparked both admiration and controversy. Born into a wealthy family of Spanish Netherlands by way of German descent. He took lessons from Frederick Corder at the Brighton School of Music, and at the Matthay School in London under Harold Craxton. Going up to Cambridge he studied composition with Harry Farjeon and Benjamin Dale. He had private lessons with Charles Wood and Cyril Rootham as well as time spent in Berlin under the auspices of Max Bunting.

Darnton’s catalogue includes four symphonies, a Concerto for Orchestra, two violin concertos, four string quartets and several film scores. His music, often chromatic and modernist - even avant-garde - drew attention in the 1920s, notably through a concert (30 March 1927) financed by his parents that alienated some critics. After his conversion to Communism, his style became simpler and more diatonic. Sadly, with the exception of the present piece, all this music remains unrecorded.

The Concertino is quite a short work, and this is its key fault. There seems to be a little bit of a stylistic imbalance between quite ‘elegant’ and occasionally even ‘dreamy’ music and the harder edged neo-classicism of Stravinsky. For example, the first movement, Allegro molto moderato, vacillates between these two contrasting styles, and the disparity is too great for an effective balance. Again, the contrasts in the middle movement, Andante, are extreme. There is a whiff of Britten about the outer sections whilst the middle ‘eight’ nods to the Warsaw Concerto in its ‘heart on sleeve’ romanticism. The finale, a Presto con disinvoltura (ease), is a good example of neo-classical or even Baroque fun. There are moments when Malcolm Arnold seems about to break through. 

Andrew Plant, in his dissertation about Darnton, notes that that the outer movements “positively bristle with technical challenges, including double octaves, sweeping Rachmaninovian chordal leaps, chains of thirds, contrary-motion, arpeggios, reiterated notes, trills and prestissimo scales.”

I reiterate my contention that this Concertino is far too short. There is a wealth of interesting material that could have been developed into a major work.

The score was published by Lengnick in 1950, in an arrangement for two pianos.

Darnton’s Concertino was released in 2005 on the Naxos label (8.557290), featured alongside Alec Rowley’s Concerto in D major for piano, strings and percussion, op. 49 (c.1938), Roberto Gerhard’s Concerto for Piano and Strings (1961), and Howard Ferguson’s Concerto for Piano and String Orchestra, op. 12 (1951). Peter Donohoe served as both pianist and conductor, performing with the Northern Sinfonia.

Listen to Donohoe playing Christian Darnton’s Piano Concerto in C Major on YouTube. It is in three videos – First movement: Allegro molto moderato;  Second Movement: Andante and Third Movement:  Presto con disinvoltura

G&S: The Ghosts’ High-Noon from Ruddigore

Ruddigore was the very first Gilbert and Sullivan opera I heard. That would be in 1968. It was the annual production of a Savoy Opera by the pupils at Coatbridge High School. Sadly, this venerable tradition was discontinued many years ago in favour of something less niche and dumbed down.

The plot of Ruddigore (without spoilers) takes place in a quaint Cornish fishing village, young Rose Maybud - prim, poetic, and governed by etiquette books - finds herself courted by the bashful Robin Oakapple, who harbours a dark secret: he is actually Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd, rightful heir to the cursed title of Baronet of Ruddigore. This ancestral burden demands that each successor commit a daily crime - or face torment from the ghostly gallery of former baronets. As identities unravel and obligations mount, the tale spirals into a gothic romp of mistaken identities, melodramatic villains, haunted portraits, and moral conundrums.

I can still recall the dramatic effect of this music on me, especially the ghosty elements. The song that remained in my mind was The Ghosts’ High Noon:

When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies,

And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies -

When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay the moon,

Then is the spectres' holiday - then is the ghosts' high noon!

As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie low on the fen,

From grey tombstones are gathered the bones that once were women

and men,

And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too

soon,

For cockcrow limits our holiday - the dead of the night's high

noon!

And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds

take flight,

With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly grim "good

night";

Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its

jolliest tune,

And ushers our next high holiday - the dead of the night's high

noon!

Ghosts rise at midnight for eerie revels, dancing from tomb to fen, then vanish at cockcrow - awaiting the next spectral fête beneath moonlit skies.

Listen to Thomas Lawlow and the New Sadlers Wells Opera Chorus and Orchestra on YouTube, here. The conductor is Simon Phipps.

Looking Back: A Review Revisited: Egon Wellez's Symphonies Nos.4, 6, and 7

This review originally appeared on MusicWeb International on 5 June 2005. Considering my recent engagement with a recording of Wellesz’s String Quartets, I was prompted to revisit my earlier reflections on the composer. The renewed encounter with his music reaffirmed the relevance of those initial impressions about his Symphonies Nos.4, 6 and 7, and it seemed timely to bring them back into circulation. What follows is a reprint of that original review, offered now with the benefit of hindsight and continued appreciation for Wellesz’s distinctive voice. I have made a few edits.

I had never heard a symphony by Egon Wellesz before this CD arrived on the doorstep. Now, I know to some folk this will be a dreadful and unforgivable admission. But the simple fact is that I have never made it there before. It is one of the joys of listening to music that one makes constant discoveries – good, bad, and indifferent.

My immediate reaction is that I have been missing a lot these 50 years. But my mitigation is two-fold – he is not exactly the most prominent name at symphony orchestra concerts and secondly there are only thirteen or so “dedicated” CDs listed in the Arkiv online catalogue representing sixteen or so works. (Up to about 20 in 2025). We are fortunate in having seven out of the nine symphonies available on CPO.

Egon Wellesz was an ‘honorary’ British composer, having fled to this country from his home Vienna because of Nazi persecution. He had been professor of musicology at Vienna, and he continued this career in the UK.

In his Austrian days Wellesz had studied with Arnold Schoenberg but also absorbed influences from Max Reger and Gustav Mahler. Describing his style is difficult. I do not like to say he sounds like ‘x, y or z,’ however the consensus seems to be that he successfully managed to synthesise disparate elements from the expressionist, classical and archaic musical vocabularies.

The CD opens with the ‘easiest’ of the three symphonies to come to terms with. This Fourth Symphony is still in the tonal sound world, so it does not challenge the ears quite as much as some of Wellesz’s later work. In fact, the third movement, the adagio, is one of the loveliest pieces in the repertoire.

The op.70 is subtitled ‘Sinfonia Austriaca and quite obviously looks back to the composer’s birthplace. It would be appropriate to describe this as ‘romantic’: it owes more to Mahler and Reger rather than the Schoenberg or the ‘secret’ harmonies of Byzantine monks.

The Sixth Symphony is unlike the tonal and romantic music presented in the Fourth. Wellesz’s musical language has had a sea change in the meantime. It is fair to say that the first four symphonies owed much to Mahler, Bruckner, and even Schubert. The Fifth began to explore the use of the twelve-note row in conjunction with personal tonal language. The Sixth Symphony makes use of “freely applied atonality, melodic construction preferring broad intervals, increasingly thin texture, and, in connection with it, increasing economy of instrumentation.” It has three movements – an animated scherzo framed by two slow outer ones. This work is taut. Strange as it may seem, certain passages made me think of Vaughan Williams’ Fourth and Sixth Symphonies as reference points. It is Wellesz’s use of unison string cantilenas that suggests this.

I listened to the Seventh Symphony straight through twice. Now this was strange as after reading the programme notes I felt sure that this would be the one that I least enjoyed: I was wrong. It is the symphony that moved me most! Back in the late ‘sixties when it was written it would be seen as being quite ‘modern.’ Many years have flown and now it is revealed as actually quite a ‘lyrical’ work. The excellent notes by Hannes Heher describe the compositional process in detail. It is best to say that it owes something to Webern. But Wellesz is not slavishly beholden to anyone. I suppose that the work of Humphrey Searle kept springing to mind as I listened. The symphony carries a subtitle of ‘Contra Torrentem’ – against the stream.

The presentation of the CD is outstanding. The quality of the sound is absolutely beyond reproach. The artwork on the cover is by Egon Schiele (Melanie, the sister of the Künstlers) and adds to the sophisticated feel of this disc. And the programme notes come up to CPO’s usual high standard; it is a veritable essay on the symphonies and includes a short article by Gottfried Rabl on the trials and tribulations of preparing the scores for performance. Wellesz did not have an eye for detail on the written page!

Overall, this is a superb recording. It is a splendid introduction to the symphonies of Egon Wellesz. The order that they are presented allows the listener to be drawn into his sound world without too great a sense of musical dislocation.

Each of these works is vital; all three symphonies are an integral and essential contribution to the symphonic literature of the twentieth century, and I find it incredible that they are represented by only one recording each. Such, unfortunately are the ways of the classical music world.

I, for one, will be looking forward to hearing the other six symphonies at the earliest possible opportunity - which I have since done! 

Track Listing:
Egon Wellesz (1885-1974)
Symphony No.4 Op.70 (1951-1953) [27:56]
Symphony No.6 Op. 95 (1965) [23:18]
Symphony No.7 Op.102 (1967) [18:58]
Radio-Symphonieorchester Wien/Gottfried Rabl
rec. 13-16, and 26-27 Nov 2001, Grosser Sendesaal, Funkhaus ORF,
CPO 999 808-2

 

Masks – An unusual introduction to the music of Sir Arthur Bliss Part II

Masks were first performed at a concert on 2 Feb 1926, by the composer and pianist Arthur Benjamin, during a 'Concert Spirituel' at the Faculty of Arts Gallery, 10 Upper John Street Golden Square, London. The recital consisted largely of music by contemporary composers. They included the first performance of Gerrard William’s Second String Quartet. This work, in spite of its good reception and apparent debt to Debussy seems to have disappeared. Miss Anne Thursfield sang ‘excellently’ five songs by Ravel and there was a performance of Boccherini’s Quintet in E.

Masks was reasonably well received by contemporary reviewers. The Times (5 February 1926) noted that Arthur Benjamin had played this work brilliantly and ‘with a glittering hardness of tone which the music seemed to demand.’ However, he did add a sting in the tail when he suggested that ‘we could not take these four pieces seriously, and probably the composer does not wish us to.’ And it gets no better: he concludes his comments with ‘...a worse fault is that we suspect some of his irrelevances to be deliberately made for the sake of being irrelevant.’  It is difficult to know what the reviewer regarded as being ‘irrelevant’ in this music but must assume that it is due to the perception at that time of Arthur Bliss being an ‘enfant terrible’ and writing music that was designed to shock and surprise rather than to entertain or inspire.

However, The Manchester Guardian (3 February 1926) was a little more positive. They report that ‘Masks... [had] a nice sense of colour and a quick intellectual grasp of epigrammatic material.’ It concludes that ‘Bliss is always witty and to the point in these four pieces but hardly knits his flashes of inspiration satisfactorily together.’

The following year a review of this work appeared in The Musical Times (1 August 1925) in an important study of recently published piano music, H.G. (Harvey Grace) wrote that:-

‘One doesn't need to look over much of the so-called 'advanced' type of new music in order to see that its composers fall into two groups. There are those who have something to say and who can say it in a manner that is genuinely novel, and yet natural and sincere. And there are the others. That Arthur Bliss belongs to the first group has always been evident to most of us. His Masks, four pieces, just published under one cover by Curwens [q.v.], strike me as being among the most significant of [the] new pianoforte works. They abound in passages that look all wrong, but sound extraordinarily right. This, of course, is merely another way of saying that the composer knows his job; and it follows that the player must know his, too. He must not only be a good man of his hands; he must be able to manage the nice adjustment of tonal values necessary for the due effect of the more dissonant passages... As is implied above, these pieces are difficult. They are not everybody's meat, but the player who is not at once repelled, and who perseveres with them, will find himself more and more attracted.’

Critical commentary disappears from the scene until the revival of interest in Bliss’ music in the early nineteen-nineties. Even then, Masks was not a work that seemed to attract much attention.

Unfortunately, there appears to be only one recording of this work. [1] In 1991 Chandos released a significant edition of the Viola Sonata with Emanuel Vardi and Kathron Sturrock. Included in this programme were the Triptych (1970), the Toccata (c.1925), the Two Interludes (1925), and Masks (CHAN 9770). The recording was well received by the critics. Michael Kennedy wrote in the July 1991 edition of Gramophone that ‘[the] most impressive [work] is the Triptych written for Louis Kentner in 1971, very much the music of the composer of the Piano Concerto. But I most enjoyed the four Masks which were composed in his avant-garde years in the early 1920s. For all their potent influence by Stravinsky and jazz, they have inventiveness, a flair that somehow seems to have left Bliss, or returned only fitfully once he had decided to become an Important English Composer.’ This CD is now out of print, but it is possible to download the work from a variety of classical music specialists on the internet.

Why do I like these pieces? Well, I think there are two main reasons. Firstly, they are very much a product of their age – Bliss was then perceived as a ‘bad boy’ of the British musical world. Yet with Masks critics began to perceive a genuine voice emerging from the musical fun and games. They were not written simply to shock. Secondly after a period of 80 years any sense of the avant-garde has largely departed from these pieces; however, the listener is conscious of an abiding sense of tongue on cheek balanced with a more profound understanding of musical expression. They have become less regarded as period pieces and more as cherished works of art as time passes.

Finally, a few years ago I was browsing in a second-hand bookshop in York, where they specialise in classical sheet music. I was both surprised and delighted to find amongst the piano music the copy of Masks that had one belonged to the late Mr. Kenneth Dawkins. So, the circle was complete.

Notes

[1] Since this essay was originally published, Mark Bebbington has recorded Masks on the Somm Label (SOMMCD 0148, 2015). Andrew Achenbach (The Gramophone, August 2015, p.58) called them “exhilarating” and noted the “sense of poignancy, loss and rage in the final two Masks (marked Sinister and Military…”

Concluded

With thanks to The Arthur Bliss Society Newsletter Volume 9, Number 1, Spring 2011: 12-16 where this essay first appeared.

Masks – An unusual introduction to the music of Sir Arthur Bliss Part I

All enthusiasts of Arthur Bliss (1891-1975) will be able to tell of their first introduction to his music. For many, I guess, it will be A Colour Symphony or one of the ballet scores – Miracle in the Gorbals or Checkmate. For some, it may have been a film score such as Things to Come or Welcome the Queen. Maybe it was the great choral work Morning Heroes or the impressive Introduction and Allegro. However, I imagine that few will have approached the master through his piano work Masks. Let me explain.

When I was still being introduced to the great works of the British music repertoire I got to know a gentleman by the name of Kenneth R. Dawkins. In about 1972 he had been appointed organist and choir master my local church. At that time, I sung in the choir and was the ‘deputy’ organist. He had been born around the turn of the century in Coventry and had worked for most of his life as a pianist and arranger, although he played the organ and turned his hand to composition. His great claim to fame was to have played piano duet with Maurice Ravel in the ‘twenties. Over a few years he introduced me to much music – including the organ works of Olivier Messiaen. Nevertheless, it was the times that he visited my house that remain in my mind. He played a number of works for me on my piano, including my first hearing of John Ireland’s The Island Spell and Billy Mayerl’s Marigold. It was at one of these occasions that he played to me Arthur Bliss’s Masks. It is work that has remained as a favourite ever since, although I had to wait for another fifteen years before being able to purchase a recording of this work. Over the succeeding 38 years I have heard much of Bliss’s music and have come to regard him as one of the major voices of the twentieth century. Yet looking at the literature there has been little written about the piano works in general or Masks in particular.

In January 1923, Arthur Bliss sailed to the United States with his father, Francis Edward Bliss. Bliss père had remarried and wished to spend the last years of his life in his native country. They chose Santa Barbara in California to live. The composer was not totally settled there: he did travel in the States and back again to England for various performances and functions. Nevertheless, in June 1924 he met his future wife, Gertrude (Trudy) Hoffman in Santa Barbara. The American years were rich for Bliss, not only personally, but in the performances of his music and the works composed. From this period date the song cycle, The Women of Yueh, the String Quartet No.2, the incidental music to King Solomon and the Two Interludes for Piano.

Masks was composed in 1924 whilst Arthur Bliss was in the United States. According to Stewart Craggs, the holograph has been lost. However, the work was published in 1925 by J. Curwen & Sons Ltd, 24 Berners Street, London. Originally, the four pieces were given titles, but these were not included in the music’s engraving. They were ‘A Comedy Mask,’ ‘A Romantic Mask,’ a ‘Sinister Mask’ and finally a ‘Military Mask.’ The work was dedicated to Felix Goodwin who was a personal friend of the composer. Goodwin was associated with the music publisher Goodwin and Tabb and had made huge efforts on behalf of British music and composers.

I had never been quite sure how to interpret Masks. Were they just a pastiche of different piano styles, written for effect, or was there something deeper in the concept of this work? It was not until I read a paragraph in John Sugden’s biography of the composer that the penny dropped. Sugden writes that Bliss believed that his personality had changed little over the years – from his childhood, through his time in the trenches and into his musical maturity. When he was at school ‘...he learnt how to conceal his true feelings behind a mask of indifference, he used it –the mask – during the next few years of his life when he was in the army...’ Bliss is quoted as saying that ‘...it enabled me, when I had endured these, to shake off the experiences that might have greatly affected me, and emerge again for my destined life in music as I really was.’ It is this psychological mind game that underlies the musical content of Masks. Certainly, the striking cover by C. Paine from the 1925 edition bears this out. Three men hurry past, each carrying a mask – one is leering, the other is worried and possibly depressed, whilst the third is quite ambiguous. Interestingly, Paine has not tried to recreate the original designations of each of the four pieces. Certainly, he has not drawn the ‘Romantic’ or the ‘Military’ masks, whilst the ‘Comedy’ and ‘Sinister’ ones may or may not be represented –it depends on the artistic prejudices of the viewer of the cover. 

Bibliography
Sugden, John, Bliss: The Illustrated Lives of the Great Composers, Omnibus Press, 1997.

To be continued…

With thanks to The Arthur Bliss Society Newsletter Volume 9, Number 1, Spring 2011: 12-16 where this essay first appeared.

Egon Wellesz (1885–1974) was a distinguished Austrian composer, teacher, and musicologist. A pupil of Arnold Schoenberg and Guido Adler, he taught at the University of Vienna until the Anschluss in 1938, after which he settled in England. There he became Reader in Byzantine music at Oxford. Though briefly interned as an enemy alien during WWII, he continued lecturing and later resumed composing, producing nine symphonies and numerous chamber works and operas. His style evolved from serialism to a more diatonic idiom, often echoing Mahlerian breadth. A key figure in the International Society of Contemporary Music (ISCM), he fostered Anglo-European musical dialogue. Egon Wellesz died in Oxford and was buried in Vienna.

I am beholden to the detailed liner notes provided with this CD.

The earliest work on this disc is the String Quartet No.2 in G minor, op.20 dating from 1915-16. At this time, Wellesz was a lecturer in music history at the University of Vienna. Certainly, the slow-paced opening Sehr Ruhig (very quiet) gives little indication of the upheavals in Europe at that time. This is typically calm and thoughtful music that only occasionally give rise to passion and angst. Tonality is present, but a little stretched from the key centre. The second movement is a robust Kräftig bewegt (strongly moved). The liner notes explain that it is in the form of a rondo, predicated around “a striking main theme” with a hint of Baroque. The episodes are often truncated, use previously heard tunes and subtly transition from one to the other. The Scherzo comes next. It is short, rhythmic, and pithy with a surprisingly lovely trio section. This relaxed mood is retained in the finale, Ruhevoll (Peaceful). There are some dramatic moments here though, before the work closes with a unison pizzicato, played forte-fortissimo. The stylistic parameters of this quartet reflect Wellesz’s early modernist voice, shaped by post-Romantic lyricism and Schoenbergian influence. It is the most approachable of the three Quartets recorded here.

The String Quartet No. 5, op. 60 was begun during the summer of 1943 and completed on 9 January the following year. It marked his return to composition after a prolonged hiatus following his exile to Oxford. This Quartet is steeped in a mood of regret and nostalgia, a tone Wellesz himself acknowledged when he described it as having been written “in a dark time” and intended as “a farewell to my former life and the friends of my youth and manhood.” This sense of leave-taking is most poignantly expressed in the finale, a slow elegy bearing the subtitle In Memoriam. Despite its austere idiom, the quartet contains many passages of striking beauty. Although Wellesz draws on Schoenbergian theory, he does so with considerable freedom, adapting serial procedures to suit his own personal needs. The music often hints at tonal centres, yet these are frequently unsettled by dissonant inflections. Formally, the quartet is in three movements. The first opens with a Maestoso that leads into an Allegro energico, structured loosely around conventional sonata principles. This is followed by a Scherzo marked Allegretto comodo, whose tense character provides significant contrast and momentum. The final movement, In Memoriam, is the emotional heart of the work - its breadth and duration equal to the combined length of the preceding two movements. It serves not only as a personal farewell to past times, but also as a broader tribute. As Caroline Cepin Benser in her monograph has observed, Wellesz intended it as a memorial to the circle of composers associated with Schoenberg, whose creative lives had been disrupted by political forces. The title gained further significance after the accidental death of Anton Webern in September 1945.

Between 1945 and 1956, Wellesz composed five symphonies, his only English opera Incognita, and a number of notable chamber works - including the Sixth and the present String Quartet No. 7, Op. 66. The listener will be conscious that this latter offering is more “tonal” in its impact than No.5. It was written rapidly between 3 March and 2 April 1948. The liner notes suggest that formally it is rooted in classical tradition. It is presented in two movements. Once again, duration wise they are unbalanced with the concluding Adagio and Fugue being three times as long as the opening Allegro moderato. The Quartet opens with a smiling theme which is balanced by a haunting second subject. The second movement is intense and occasionally quite scary. The exposition of the fugue, begun by the solo cello, is laconic. Yet, it does end positively with a “joyful” Allegro energico banishing any angst. Overall, this is a striking work that establishes Wellesz’s evolving mastery of form and expression in the post-war years. Its emotional breadth - from lyrical charm to brooding introspection and eventual exuberance is palpable.

Established in Vienna in 1998, the Aron Quartett has garnered acclaim for its performances of 20th-century repertoire, with a particular affinity for the Second Viennese School, while also embracing classical traditions. The ensemble has toured internationally and released several recordings, notably featuring Erich Wolfgang Korngold’s string quartets and Mario Castelnuovo-Tedesco’s piano quintets.

I have already mentioned the comprehensive liner notes accompanying this disc. They are printed in German and English. I do wish the font were a wee bit larger: there is no obvious source for sleeve note downloads of CPO CDs. The booklet includes a couple of characteristic photos of the composer. The cover is taken from Austrian artist Egon Schiele’s Felderlandschaft (Field Landscape) dating from 1910.

This new release marks the beginning (hopefully) of a complete cycle of Egon Wellesz’s ten (nine in the catalogue, but maybe includes 4 Stücke, op.103, 1968) string quartets, tracing his aesthetic journey from early modernist lyricism to post-war tonal refinement. The Aron Quartett delivers nuanced, idiomatic performances that illuminate Wellesz’s evolving voice. While an earlier recording of Quartets 3, 4, and 6 by the Artis Quartett (Nimbus NI 5821, reviewed here, and here) offered valuable insight, this new cycle promises a broader, more unified portrait of Wellesz’s compositional legacy.

Track Listing:
Egon Wellesz (1885-1974)
String Quartet No.2 in G minor, op.20 (1915-16)
String Quartet No.5, op.60 (1943)
String Quartet No.7, op.66 (1948)
Aron Quartett: Ludwig Müller (violin); Barna Kobori (violin); Georg Hamann (viola), Christophe Pantillon (cello)
rec. June 2019 (No.5); October 2019 (No.2); December 2022 (No.7) Konzertsaal der Musikschule Bräuhausgasse, Vienna.
CPO Records CPO 555 617-2

Ignaz Moscheles: Les Charmes de Londres

I regard Ignaz Moscheles (1794-1870) as an ‘honorary’ British musician. He was a Bohemian pianist and composer, renowned as one of the leading virtuosos of his time. Moscheles was a close associate of Beethoven, who entrusted him with the piano arrangement of his opera Fidelio. He gained international acclaim for his virtuosic performances and compositions, including eight piano concertos and countless preludes and studies for piano and chamber works. In 1821, Moscheles settled in London, where he later became a prominent figure in the musical scene. He later joined the Leipzig Conservatory as a professor of piano, collaborating with his friend and former pupil, Felix Mendelssohn. Moscheles’ influence extended to composers like Chopin and Schumann, and his innovative approach to piano technique and pedagogy left a lasting impact on the music world.

Following concert appearances in Aachen and Brussels, Moscheles made his way back to London in late January 1827. The months that followed proved remarkably productive: he completed his Fifty Preludes for Piano, op. 73, and penned a Rondo that would later find its place in the Album des Pianistes. Around the same time, he wrote Les Charmes de Londres (The Charms of London), op.74, is a brilliant example of the early Romantic salon style, blending virtuosic flair with cosmopolitan elegance. Published in the mid-1830s, the work reflects both the composer’s affection for his adopted city and his reputation as one of Europe’s leading pianists.

The piece, which is written in A major, opens with a stately Introduction written in 9/8 time:

This sets a scene of refined grandeur before launching into the main Rondo brillant now appearing with a 6/8-time signature:

Here, Moscheles’ gift for melodic invention and pianistic brilliance comes to the fore. The rondo theme is buoyant and urbane, punctuated by dazzling passagework and playful modulations. It is music designed to charm, entertain, and impress - much like the fashionable soirées of Regency London where such works would have been performed.

Though not programmatic in the strict sense, the title invites us to imagine the city’s allure: its glittering concert halls, genteel drawing rooms, and vibrant cultural life. Moscheles, a close associate of Mendelssohn and a key figure in the transition from Classical to Romantic idioms, imbues the work with both technical polish and expressive warmth.

One contemporary commentator (The Quarterly Musical Magazine and Review, July 1827, p.403) writes:

Les charmes de Londres! Why it is so called we cannot at all guess, n’importe; it a least possesses all the charme of its author’s genius,  and  if it had any illusion to London, it is to the unalloyed pleasure a young heart feels when first introduced to all the splendours and all the seduction of the metropolis. The subject is one of the most bewitching we ever heard, and the whole lesson is as buoyant and sparkling, so full of life and variety, as all the charms of London combined, and more so, for it is without any defects or disagreeables, of which there are but too many in the great city.”

In a slightly patronising review in The Athenaeum: London Literary and Critical Journal (28 March 1828, p.296) the critic writes:

“The simple announcement of this publication will be recommendation sufficient, without our offering any praise: we, therefore, briefly assert that is a worthy a place in every lady’s musical portfolio…It may be unnecessary to add that it requires a good performer upon the pianoforte to do it justice; but it will repay the amateur who is willing to bestow justice upon it.”

Les Charmes de Londres, then stands as a musical postcard from a pianist-composer at the height of his powers - an affectionate tribute to a city that embraced him, and a showcase of the charm he returned in kind.

No recording of Ignaz Moscheles’s Les Charmes de Londres appears to have been commercially released on record or CD, however it can be heard on YouTube, here. The unnamed pianist is playing at the Iowa School of Music.

The Eule Organ: Magdalen College, Oxford

Installed in 2023, the Eule organ at Magdalen College Chapel marked a new chapter in the College’s distinguished musical history. It replaced the ailing Mander organ installed in 1986. Built by Hermann Eule Orgelbau of Bautzen, Germany, the instrument reflects German Romantic ideals while remaining versatile for a broad repertoire including Baroque. With forty-five stops across four manuals and pedals - including a rare Physharmonica and a commanding tuba stop - it offers exceptional colour and dynamic range.

The organ’s case, which is a reimagining of Julian Bicknell’s earlier work for the Mander organ, sits elegantly in the south gallery, while the console allows direct engagement with the choir and congregation. Funded by a bequest from Anthony Smith CBE, the instrument was inaugurated by former Magdalen organ scholars. It now serves as a focal point for worship and recital.

The recital opens with a dark, melancholic offering by Franz Liszt. Originally written for piano, Funérailles (Funeral) is the seventh number in Liszt's Harmonies poétiques et religieuses which was a collection of ten-character studies inspired by the gloomier aspects of death and religion. Funérailles dates from 1849 and commemorates the casualties of the Hungarian Revolution of 1848 and majors on themes of pain, and suffering. This transcription for organ, was made by Jeanne Demessieux. It is an arduous piece, although there are some remarkable moments especially the moving funeral dirge and the triumphant march.

Next up is Liszt’s arrangement of the hackneyed Pilgrims Chorus from Richard Wagner’s 1845 opera, Tannhäuser. It evokes solemn devotion and rising hope, symbolising the hero’s longing for grace, through its steady rhythm and sacred harmonies.

The liner notes explain that Carl Reinecke’s Organ Sonata in G minor, op. 284 has echoes of Felix Mendelssohn especially in the beautiful middle section, which is a nod to the elder man’s Lieder ohne Worte. There is considerable interest in the first and last movements, with a glorious conclusion expounding the chorale theme, Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern (How brightly shies the morning star). There is no consensus as to when the Sonata was completed, although judging by the opus number it is late in Reinecke’s life. Sadly, Reinecke’s achievement is forgotten, yet his contribution to his art was considerable, through his post as composition teacher at the Leipzig Conservatoire. His pupils included Edvard Grieg, Max Bruch, Ferrucio Busoni and Charles Villers Stanford.

Ethel Smyth’s Prelude & Fugue on ‘O Traurigkeit, O Herzeleid’ (O Sadness, O Heartache) was written when she was in her mid ‘twenties. It is the fifth and final number of her Short Choral Preludes (1882-84). From the opening Prelude meditating on Good Friday, which would make a lovely introit, to the considerable Fugue, with its dramatic middle section and ruminative close, this is a gem.

Sigfrid Karg-Elert was a German composer who wrote in a wide variety of genres but is recalled nowadays for his expressive organ works. Influenced by Debussy and Scriabin, he fused chromaticism and Impressionism with Baroque polyphony. The atmospheric The Reed-grown Waters is taken from his Seven Pastels from the Lake of Constance (c.1920). It calls for innovative registrations and a sensitive evocation of mystery. Listen out for the cuckoo…

Talking of that avian friend, Eric Fenby’s winning transcription of Fred. Delius’s best loved tone poem, On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring, is always a rare treat. Not sure I would use this ideal illustration of pantheist nature worship during liturgical services, though…

Percy Whitlock is well-loved by organ buffs. His impressionistic Carol (Four Extemporisations, No. 1) dating form 1933, has hat-tips to Delius and includes yet another brief appearance of the cuckoo. Malcolm Riley has noted its “Delian characteristic [including] pervasive chromatic voice leading, the use of the false relation and a wide-ranging meandering melody.”

I am not sure about Percy Grainger’s The Immovable Do (1933-1941) in this arrangement for organ by the man himself. It certainly sounds impressive at times, but not suitable for Evensong! It is an interesting “sonic experiment” which is part meditation and part technical warhorse. At its heart lies a single sustained pitch (doh/C), held (by a jammed down pencil in the keys) throughout the entire piece. This tonal anchor is secure while the surrounding harmonies shift and evolve: a symbol of stability amid change.

Peter Warlock’s Folk-Song Preludes is yet another transcription, this time by the present soloist, Alexander Pott. Originally written for piano around the end of the First World War, this collection of miniatures reimagines five traditional Celtic melodies, and provides them with subtle harmonies and finesse. The liner notes supply titles of the “found” tunes (where known). They are lovely, short pastoral evocations, which may be just too brief. Their overall mood is one of melancholy and introspection.

The final work on this imaginative disc is Ernest Austin’s Organ Sonata in G major (c.1935). Austin had a wide-ranging career, including as a baritone singer, an organist and as artistic director of the short lived British National Opera Company. He was also a professor of singing at the Royal Academy of Music. Recording projects over the past thirty years have seen editions of his Symphony in E minor, the Symphonic Rhapsody “Spring,” the cello sonata and the Overture: Sea Venturers.

Austin’s Organ Sonata was dedicated to Percy Whitlock; however, it is not known whether it was played by the dedicatee. It is in a single movement, written, I guess as a Sonata-Rondo. Certainly, there is a powerful recurring theme, interspersed with vibrant dance episodes and the occasional meditation. There are nods towards Whitlock. The liner notes explain that the first modern performance was given by Charles Matthews in 2022. This disc gives the work’s premiere recording. I hope that it gains traction in the organ loft, as it is a worthy piece.

Alexander Pott is a British organist, conductor, and scholar. His early training began as a chorister at Westminster Abbey, followed by organ studies at Christ Church, Oxford, and Westminster Cathedral. He later served as Assistant Organist and Tutor to the Choristers at Magdalen College, Oxford, where he played a key role in celebrating the installation of the new Eule organ - including performing the complete organ works of J. S. Bach over two terms, raising over £10,000 for charity. Pott is also the founder and director of The Delius Singers, a choir dedicated to exploring overlooked choral repertoire from the 19th and 20th centuries. His academic endeavour focuses on the music of Frederick Delius, the subject of his PhD at Cambridge.

The liner notes give a decent introduction to the recital. It would have been helpful to the listener if the dates of all the compositions/transcriptions had been given. There is a resume of the organist and a succinct history of the instrument. The all-important organ specification is included. The schematic diagram of the console and the stop arrangement is illegible.

This disc offers a satisfying portrait of the recent Eule organ’s expressive breadth and tonal sophistication. It presents a programme that is by turns solemn, whimsical, and richly evocative. Alexander Pott’s thoughtful programming and assured playing illuminate the instrument’s capacity to honour tradition and embrace innovation - from Liszt’s brooding grandeur to Whitlock’s pastoral charm. Though a Baroque inclusion might have rounded out the recital’s stylistic range, the disc nonetheless establishes Magdalen’s renewed musical vision.

Track Listing:
Franz Liszt (1811-86) arr. Jeanne Demessieux (1921-68)
Funérailles (1849)
Richard Wagner (1813-83) arr. Franz Liszt
Pilgrims' Chorus from Tannhäuser (1845), S. 676ii (??)
Carl Reinecke (1824-1910)
Organ Sonata in G minor, op. 284 (?)
Ethel Smyth (1858-1944)
Prelude & Fugue on ‘O Traurigkeit, O Herzeleid’ (1882-84)
Sigfrid Karg-Elert (1877-1933)
The Reed-grown Waters from Seven Pastels from the Lake Constance (c.1920)
Frederick Delius (1862-1934) arr. Eric Fenby (1906-97)
On Hearing the First Cuckoo in Spring (1912/1934)
Percy Whitlock (1903-46)
Carol (Four Extemporisations, No. 1) (1933)
Percy Grainger (1882-1961)
The Immovable Do (1933-1941)
Peter Warlock (1894-1930) arr. Alexander Pott (?)
Folk-Song Preludes (1918/?)
Frederic Austin (1872-1952)
Organ Sonata in G major (c.1935)
Alexander Pott (organ)
rec. 28-29 December 2024, Magdalen College Oxford
Convivium Records CR109 [2CDs: 88]

Ivor Gurney’s ‘Carol of the Skiddaw Yowes’: An Appreciation Part III

The song was first published in 1920 by Boosey and Co. In a letter to J.W. Haines dated 9 February 1921, Gurney states that he had received ‘very nice letter’ from the poet’s wife, ‘to acknowledge the Carol, and to say she likes it.’ (Collected Letters, 1991). The song was subsequently reprinted in 1925. It was included in A Heritage of 20th Century British Song: Vol 2 published by Boosey and Hawkes in 1977 and again in 1984. In 1988 Richard Graves arranged ‘Skiddaw Yowes’ for SATB. It was printed by Banks Music Publications, Sand Hutton, York.

It is strange that I can locate only a single current recording of the ‘Carol of Skiddaw Yowes.’ This was made by the baritone Benjamin Luxon and pianist David Willison back in 1990 and released on the Chandos label. The CD includes a good selection of songs by George Butterworth including Six Songs from ‘A Shropshire Lad’, ‘Bredon Hill and other songs’ and twenty numbers by Ivor Gurney. They are all beautifully sung, but as noted above, Luxon takes ‘Skiddaw Yowes’ at a jaunty pace.

The Lake District does not appear to have acted as inspiration for composers in quite the same way as Gloucestershire, Worcestershire and London.  Philip Scowcroft, writing for MusicWeb International has scoured the catalogues for works which evoke this inspiring landscape. 

The late Arthur Butterworth wrote a set of piano pieces entitled Lakeland Summer Nights, op.10 in 1949. One major work was Cecil Armstrong Gibbs’ Symphony No. 3 in B-Flat Major, Op. 104, ‘Westmorland’ composed in 1944. This is an impressive work that does not seem to have gained traction with concert promoters. The same composer produced Lakeland Pictures for piano solo, op.98 (1940).  Scowcroft mentions a chamber work by Cyril Rootham entitled In the Lake Country for violin (viola or cello) and piano (1924).  My personal favourite evocation of the Lake District is Maurice Johnstone’s impressionistic tone poem, Cumbrian Rhapsody: Tarn Hows (1951) Fortunately, a recording of this work was released in 1999 by ASV Whiteline label on CDWHL 2116. It is difficult to understand how such a recollective piece has not entered the concert hall and radio studios. In 1985, John McCabe wrote his Cloudcatcher Fells for brass band: this is a masterpiece of Lake District landscape ‘tone-painting.’ It has been recorded a few times.

I have always wanted to hear Samuel Hartley Braithwaite’s Symphonic Scherzo A Night by Dalegarth Bridge, first heard under the baton of Dan Godfrey at Bournemouth on 22 December 1920. It has a tantalising title and is surely deserving of revival.

Finally, one work that was never completed (sketches remain) was Edward Elgar’s Lakes Overture, sketched in the early 1880s. It would surely have been a great companion piece to the well-known Froissart Overture and the sun-drenched In the South.

Ivor Gurney’s ‘Carol of Skiddaw Yowes’ remains one of his most satisfying works. Its straightforwardness adds to the dramatic ‘haunting’ effect. As Michael Pilkington (1989) has noted, it is an ideal song for performance at Christmastide. It is one of the loveliest and most effective evocations of the Lake District and of the ‘shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.’

Brief Bibliography:
Blevins, Pamela, Ivor Gurney and Marion Scott: Song of Pain & Beauty (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2008)
Hold, Trevor, Parry to Finzi: Twenty English Song-Composers (Woodbridge, The Boydell Press, 2002)
Lancaster, Philip, ‘Ivor Gurney: Catalogue of Musical Works’, The Ivor Gurney Society Journal, (IGSJ) Volume 12, 2006.
Pilkington, Michael, Gurney, Ireland, Quilter and Warlock in the English Solo Song: Guides to the Repertoire (London, Thames Publishing, 1989)
Thornton, R.K.R. (editor), Ivor Gurney: Collected Letters (Manchester, Mid Northumberland Arts Group/Carcanet Press, 1991)
Walter, George, Chronology of Gurney’s Life and Work (http://www.geneva.edu/~dksmith/gurney/chronology.html) [Accessed 15/05/18]
The files of The Gramophone, Ivor Gurney Society Journal, etc 

Discography:
When I was One-and-Twenty: George Butterworth and Ivor Gurney Songs: Benjamin Luxon (baritone), David Willison (piano) (CHANDOS CHAN 8831 1990)

Concluded

With thanks to the Ivor Gurney Society Journal, Volume 23, 2017 where this essay was first published. 

 

 

 

Ivor Gurney’s ‘Carol of the Skiddaw Yowes’: An Appreciation Part II

Ivor Gurney composed his song ‘Carol of Skiddaw Yowes’ around Christmas 1919. The major event during May of that year had been the publication War’s Embers by Sidgwick and Jackson. In August, Gurney had submitted several poems to some important journals including The Century, The Athenæum, Harper’s Magazine, The New Witness and The Spectator. None were accepted. Almost as a consolation prize, he went on a walking holiday into the Welsh Black Mountains. He was accompanied by John Wilton Haines [J.W.H] who was to become the dedicatee of Gurney’s ‘Carol.’ Haines was a poet, solicitor and an amateur botanist living at Hucclecote, near Gloucester. He was acquainted with the Dymock Poets, including Robert Frost and Edward Thomas. After his holiday, Gurney moved to High Wycombe, where he was appointed organist at Christ Church, Crenden Street. He had held this position in 1914 before entering military service. George Walter’s chronology states that Gurney and F.W. Harvey visited the author and poet John Masefield at Boar’s Hill, Oxford during November.

Fig.1

The outstanding feature of Ivor Gurney’s setting of ‘Skiddaw Yowes’ is its subtle simplicity, reflecting the humble station of the shepherds. The song is ostensibly written in A minor: however, the melody is modal, which means that the notes F and G are ‘natural’ rather than ‘sharp.’ There is not a single accidental in the entire score. The vocal range is limited to the mid-range, extending from D’ to E”.  This makes it an ideal song for baritone or contralto singers. Gurney signed the music to be played ‘quasi andante’ which is a little ambiguous. It means ‘almost’ or ‘nearly’ moderately slow or ‘walking pace.’ In fact, the only recording of this song takes a slightly faster pace than this instruction implies.

The ‘Carol’ utilises the same melody for all three verses, with some slight variants demanded by the text. Metrically, the song is interesting. Largely written in 2/4 time, there is the occasional bar of 3/4 ‘waltz’ time. This invariably occurs at the end of the last line of each verse before reverting to the original time signature on the final syllable.

Fig.2

Typically, the melody moves by step and small ‘skips’, though there are two melodic intervals that stand out in the vocal line of each stanza. The opening anacrusis leap of a fourth (E-A) (Fig.1) and the haunting upward perfect fifth (G-D) at the end of the fourth line of each verse – e.g. ‘falling down’ (Fig.2). The melody then rises to the highest note, E which is reserved for the word ‘Jesu’ where it is sung on the first syllable falling by step onto the D for the second (Fig.2). This is heard in all three verses.

The Scotch Snap is a prominent feature of this song. It is used in several places, to accommodate words that can be sung with a short, followed by a long, syllable. For example, ‘Skiddaw’, ‘Redder,’ ‘Shepherds’ (Fig.1) and ‘Falling’ (Fig.2). This gives an attractive lilt, which is an important characteristic of this song.

The ‘Carol of Skiddaw Yowes’ is sung quietly with the dynamic never rising above mezzo-piano (mp). Each stanza ends pianissimo (pp). The accompaniment reflects the relatively simple nature of the song melody. This piano part is largely chordal, often based on parallel first inversion triads, supported by a rocking bass. Dissonance is mild with little beyond added 6^th and major 7^th chords. There are virtually no rests. 

Brief Bibliography:
Blevins, Pamela, Ivor Gurney and Marion Scott: Song of Pain & Beauty (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2008)
Hold, Trevor, Parry to Finzi: Twenty English Song-Composers (Woodbridge, The Boydell Press, 2002)
Lancaster, Philip, ‘Ivor Gurney: Catalogue of Musical Works’, The Ivor Gurney Society Journal, (IGSJ) Volume 12, 2006.
Pilkington, Michael, Gurney, Ireland, Quilter and Warlock in the English Solo Song: Guides to the Repertoire (London, Thames Publishing, 1989)
Thornton, R.K.R. (editor), Ivor Gurney: Collected Letters (Manchester, Mid Northumberland Arts Group/Carcanet Press, 1991)
Walter, George, Chronology of Gurney’s Life and Work (http://www.geneva.edu/~dksmith/gurney/chronology.html) [Accessed 27/08/25]
The files of The Gramophone, Ivor Gurney Society Journal, etc

To be continued...

With thanks to the Ivor Gurney Society Journal, Volume 23, 2017 where this essay was first published.