Minor Masterpieces of Organ Music No.3: Louis Vierne’s Berceuse

Most readers of this journal will have played on a harmonium at some stage in their career. If, like me, you have not been overimpressed by one of these instruments, it will hardly be surprising. Regularly found in a remote kirk, they will often suffer from damp, sticking notes and out of tune reeds. They are not ideal for leading a congregation in rousing hymns or giving a powerful recessional at the close of the service.

It will surely come as a surprise to certain listeners that Louis Vierne’s (1870-1930) Berceuse was written for this Cinderella of keyboard instruments. And what is more, so were all the other numbers in the “24 Pièces en style libre,” op.31. This includes the dynamic warhorse Carillon – sur la sonnerie du Carillon de la chapelle du Château de Longpont (Aisne) and the nippy, incisive Divertissement.

To be sure, the instrument that Vierne had in mind was unlike the ubiquitous American reed organ which sucks air over the reeds. The Victor and Auguste Mustel harmonium blew air across the reeds, resulting in something a little more akin to a pipe organ. For the record, the composer is known to have disliked the harmonium. He is said to have described it as a “big nasal accordion” and a “pitiful caricature of the pipe organ.”

Berceuse (sur les paroles classiques) is Vierne’s most played work, if not his most significant. For every organist who can play the Final of the Symphony No.6 or Les cloches de Hinckley from the Vingt-quatre pièces de Fantasie, there are dozens who can make a reasonable fist of this beautiful cradle song.

The “24 Pieces en style libre” were completed in the year preceding the outbreak of the First World War. The two volumes, each with twelve pieces, were published by Durand & Co. in 1914. It was at a time when the composer was exploring other genres. From this period dates his song cycle Stances d'amour et de rêve, op. 29, and the Sonate for cello and piano, op.27. Personally, in the early Autum of 1913, his young son, Andre died whilst the family were holidaying at Juziers, Île-de-France.

Vierne was inspired by an old French tune - “Dodo, l’enfant do” which was based on an ancient carillon rung at the midday Angelus. The text of the Lullaby was ‘Sleep, Child/The Child will sleep soon.’ The Berceuse carries the dedication ‘a ma fille COLETTE’ – his seven-year-old daughter.

Structurally, Berceuse is an interesting development of a basic musical form. The traditional ternary form (A B A) is used in more than a third of the Pieces en style libre. Often in works using this formula, the B section contrasts with the A with the introduction of new melodic, rhythmic, or harmonic material. Not so the Berceuse. Vierne has used a modification of this form: Statement – Development – Restatement, with an added coda. Thus, it becomes a monothematic composition.

One version of the original melody was as below:

Using this as inspiration, Vierne opened his Berceuse thus:

 

Of interest is the “call and response” motif on the second page:

Berceuse is written in A major, however it has a slightly unstable tonality. Many bars are diatonic, nevertheless some of the phrase endings step out of key. Harmonically, Vierne makes ample use of open fifth chords, often in both hands, but sounding as Major or Minor 7^th chords.The ‘restatement’ towards the conclusion is coloured with chromatic notes in the ‘alto’ part. The piece concludes with a long coda (19 bars) ending on an A major chord with an added sixth.

It is doubtful that the registration suggested by the composer would have been as effective on the harmonium. The Great organ calls for a flute and the Swell requires two string stops - a Gambe and the Voix Celeste. These latter give the Berceuse a dreamy, sleepy quality. The pedal requires 16’ and 8’ Bourdons. 

In its simple form and comforting melody, this is a Cradle “Song without Words.” Its harmonic treatment is free, relatively modern, and unique, reflecting the incomparable style of Louis Vierne. This is original and noteworthy music with a distinct and individual beauty.

With thanks to the Glasgow Society of Organists Journal where this essay was first published. 

Heathcote Statham: Fantasia on ‘Veni Emmanuel’ for organ

Advent Sunday is the “official” start of the Church Year. To be sure, Christmas merchandise has been available in the shops since mid-September. Shops, hotels, and restaurants are already decorated with Christmas baubles and tinsel. But today, the Church formally begins its descent into twinkling lights, carols, over-spending, overeating and Morecambe and Wise Christmas Specials. And hopefully, a celebration of the Feast of the Nativity of the Lord Jesus Christ.

In some Anglican cathedrals and churches, the Advent Sunday Procession begins in darkness, pierced by a lone voice singing O come, O come, Emmanuel. This ancient hymn, steeped in Latin plainchant tradition, petitions Christ through the prophetic titles Wisdom, Root of Jesse, Dayspring - each revealing a theological aspect of the Coming of the Messiah. The hymn’s wistful minor melody and solemn rhythm embody that yearning, drawing worshippers into the mystery of Advent. Its refrain “Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee” offers a spark of hope amid the shadows of life, a promise of light breaking into the world.

O come, O come, Emmanuel!

Redeem thy captive Israel,

That into exile drear is gone.

Far from the face of God’s dear Son.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel.

O come, thou Wisdom from on high!

Who madest all in earth and sky,

Creating man from dust and clay:

To us reveal salvation’s way.

O come, thou Root of Jesse! draw

The quarry from the lion’s claw;

From those dread caverns of the grave,

From nether hell, thy people save.

O come, O come, thou Dayspring bright!

Pour on our souls thy healing light;

Dispel the long night’s lingering gloom,

And pierce the shadows of the tomb.

O come, Desire of nations! show

Thy kingly reign on earth below;

Thou Cornerstone, uniting all,

Restore the ruin of our fall.

Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

Shall come to thee, O Israel

Heathcote Dicken Statham (1889-1973) was an English organist, conductor, and composer whose legacy lies solidly within the tradition of Anglican church music. Educated at Gaius College Cambridge and at the Royal College of Music, he held posts in St Paul’s Cathedral Kolkata and St Michael’s College, (now St Michael Abbey School), Tenbury before serving as organist of Norwich Cathedral (1928–1966). Whilst in this post, he regularly conducted the Norwich Philharmonic Orchestra and for the Norwich Festivals. Statham was appointed Commander of the Order of the British Empire (CBE) in 1967. His works include liturgical settings such as a Te Deum, a Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis, the evocative Rhapsody on a Ground for organ (1944), and Christmas carol arrangements like Joy! Joy! from every Steeple.

Heathcote Statham’s Fantasia on ‘Veni Emmanuel’ for organ was written in 1956, for inclusion in the Advent volume of Novello’s Festal Voluntaries series. Other composers featured in this album included Francis Jackson, C.S. Lang, Alec Rowley, and William Lloyd Webber.

Fantasia on ‘Veni Emmanuel’ is a powerful organ piece that transforms the ancient Advent plainsong into a dramatic musical adventure. Opening quietly with modal harmonies, it gradually builds in intensity, weaving contrapuntal textures and bold harmonic modulations that evoke mystery and majesty. Statham’s treatment of the chant is reverent yet imaginative, allowing the tune to emerge in varied guises - sometimes clear, sometimes hidden. The work culminates in a powerful climax before subsiding into a quiet, contemplative close.

Listen to Statham’s Fantasia on ‘Veni Emmanuel’ on YouTube, here. It is played by Christopher Matthews on the Baird organ of Hampstead Garden Suburb Free Church

Jack Strachey’s Shaftsbury Avenue

In 1948, London’s Shaftesbury Avenue, was three years into peace. The war may have ended, but its legacy lingered in the soot-streaked façades and the gaps where buildings once stood. The Lyric and Apollo remained steadfast, their marquees glowing once more, drawing postwar crowds eager for distraction in revue, drama, and the occasional American import.

The Monico Restaurant still serves its loyal clientele in Piccadilly, though the menus are modest and the ration books not yet retired. The Trocadero, with its faded grandeur, offers a glimpse of pre-war civility, now tinged with nostalgia. Pedestrians navigate a city in transition - between posters for Craven A and appeals for reconstruction, past demobbed servicemen and women in utility clothes, all moving with the quiet determination of a population finally enjoying peacetime.

Shaftesbury Avenue remained the West End’s spine, its theatres flickering back to life, its spirit unbroken. 

Jack Strachey (1894–1972) was a versatile English composer and songwriter best known for his contributions to popular song and light orchestral music. Born in London, he began his career in the 1920s writing for musical revues, achieving early success with Lady Luck in 1927. His most enduring hit, These Foolish Things (Remind Me of You), co-written with Eric Maschwitz and Harry Link in 1935, became a jazz standard recorded by artists from Billie Holiday to Bryan Ferry and Rod Stewart.

In the 1940s, he turned to light music, producing many charming orchestral pieces like Theatreland (1940) and In Party Mood (1944), the latter becoming the theme for BBC’s Housewives’ Choice.

Strachey’s Shaftesbury Avenue (1948) is a vigorous orchestral miniature that depicts the bustling charm of London’s famed theatre district. Scored for light orchestra, the piece evokes the glamour and energy of West End nightlife with brisk rhythms, sparkling melodies, and a touch of urbane wit. Like many of Strachey’s light music compositions it blends sophistication with approachability, conjuring vivid imagery without the need for words.

The music opens with a typically jaunty motif that suggests bustling traffic and marquee lights, then unfolding into a series of playful episodes that mirror the theatrical flair of Shaftesbury Avenue itself. Though less widely known than In Party Mood, this piece exemplifies Strachey’s gift for musical storytelling and his affection for London’s cultural heartbeat. Even at 77 years remove it is easy to imagine the post-war panache of the theatregoers.

Jack Strachey’s Shaftsbury Avenue was released on a Bosworth Recording (BC1213) in 1948. It was coupled with George Crow’s Wild Goose Chase. Both works were performed by the Louis Voss Orchestra. Shaftsbury Avenue can be heard on YouTube, here.

Ralph Vaughan Williams: Mantegna – Hymnody and Beyond

Albion Records never cease to amaze me with their imaginative releases of music written or inspired by Ralph Vaughan Williams. The present release is no exception. The disc cover photo of Italian Renaissance artist Mantegna’s (1431-1506) “The Agony in the Garden” sets the tone for much, but not all the repertoire on this album.

The programme opens with RVW’s stirring arrangement of “All People that on Earth do Dwell” for the 1953 Coronation. Originally based on Louis Bourgeois’s tune for Psalm 134 in the 1551 Genevan Psalter, it was subsequently paired with William Kethe’s English adaptation of Psalm 100 in the 1561 Anglo-Genevan Psalter. The orchestration for this present recording was made by David Stone and reduces the forces used during that regal occasion at Westminster Abbey.

Mantegna was the name given to RVW’s original hymn tune for “Into the woods my master went” composed for the 1931 enlarged edition of Songs of Praise. It is a lugubrious melody that reflects Christ’s passion embraced by nature and sacrifice. The words were by the American musician, author and poet, Sidney Lanier (1842-81).

Most listeners will associate the late Francis Jackson with the organ loft and quires and places where they sing. Yet in his catalogue were several works for orchestra, including a Symphony. It is a pleasure to hear his Homage to Vaughan Williams (Variations on Mantegna), op. 26 (c.1960). The liner notes explain the formal construction: “It…roughly follows the events of the Garden of Gethsemane; the prayers which Christ offered and the interludes in which he speaks to the disciples and comes back and finds them asleep. Then two variations are joined together to make quite a long period denoting the approach of the mob who are coming with Judas to arrest Christ. The final variation is after the arrest where they all leave the Garden; it is a slow march which dies away.” This long piece, lasting more than seventeen minutes, has been edited, with new orchestral parts prepared by Malcom Riley. Whether the listener is sympathetic to the Gospel story or not, they will find much moving music here, that is truly a Homage to (but not a pastiche of) the elder composer.

Four musicians have lent their talents to the present recording of the Prelude on King’s Lynn. The song was collected by RVW from a certain Mr Anderson’s rendition of Young Henry the Poacher, also known as Van Diemen’s Land. He adapted it for use as a hymn tune, often complimenting the words “O God of earth and altar.” In 1945, Percy Whitlock published his Six Hymn Preludes, which included a worthy chorale fantasia on King’s Lynn. Once again Malcolm Riley has brought his remarkable talents to a version for full orchestra, including an appearance of the organ in the final bars. The result is a splendid tribute to RVW, in both his pastoral and noble styles.

This dramatic offering is succeeded by a satisfying rendition of the hymn itself, in a setting for choir and orchestra by the organist and composer William H. Harris. The words are by the witty, yet often profound author and Chrisitan apologist, G.K. Chesterton.

Henry G. Ley’s meditative Prelude on Down Ampney for organ needs little introduction to organ buffs. Ley penned this beautiful tribute shortly after RVW’s death in 1958. It takes as its theme the eponymous tune to “Come down O love divine,” which first appeared in The English Hymnal: it is one of Vaughan Williams’s most celebrated hymn tunes, named after the village of his birth.

The Dulwich Choir sings RVW’s arrangement of Orlando Gibbons’s Song 13 to the words “Jesu, Grant Me This, I pray.” These words were derived from a 17^th Century Latin original translated by Henry Williams Baker (1821-77). The poet calls for the faithful to abide in Christ’s wounded love. I agree that this is best heard (as here) unaccompanied.

Vaughan Williams’s Hymn Tune Prelude on ‘Song 13’ was a rare pianoforte piece which was premiered by Harriet Cohen in 1930. Helen Glatz, who was a close friend and former pupil of the composer, arranged it for strings in 1953, evoking the sonorities of a Renaissance viol consort. It is an incredibly beautiful and moving setting.

Two numbers by William H Harris follow. The first, The Heavens Declare the Glory of God was written in 1930 for the annual Festival of the Sons of the Clergy in St. Paul’s Cathedral. This anthem features an “extended setting” of the text “Eternal Ruler of the ceaseless round” by John White Chadwick (1840-1904) coupled with Orlando Gibbons Song 1. It expresses well the notion of God guiding, protecting, and inspiring the faithful. The second is Harris’s Fantasia on an English Folk Tune, drawing on the melody known as Monk’s Gate. This was edited by Vaughan Williams and is familiar through its pairing with Percy Dearmer’s adaptation of Bunyan’s pilgrim text, gaining prominence in the English Hymnal accompanying “He who would valiant be.” Harris’s complex voluntary is summed up by the programme notes: “This highly-structured work mines every possible contrapuntal permutation of the melody, including canonic writing and inversion as well as an extended fugal passage – a veritable pilgrimage.”

Godfrey Thring’s (1823–1903) hymn “Fierce raged the tempest o’er the deep” may be distilled into the thought: Tempest roars, disciples fear; Christ speaks – ‘Peace, be still’ - and calm returns. Vaughan Williams named his tune White Gates after the Dorking cottage he moved to in 1929, during a period when his first wife, Adeline, was afflicted by chronic arthritis.

As a bonus, English organist and composer David Briggs’s triumphant Carillon on White Gates for organ solo, was specially commissioned by The Ralph Vaughan Williams Society for this present disc. Briggs has wittily described it thus: “Here’s RVW on a weekend in Paris, giving Marcel Dupré his White Gates tune, as the subject for a Carillon.” Note the nod to RVW’s Let All the World (from Five Mystical Songs) towards the conclusion. It is a little war horse that deserves to be in the repertoire of all concert organists. Brilliant!

Commissioned especially for this album, Riley’s short Introit on the hymn tune Magda for orchestral brass and percussion. It was dedicated to the present musical director, William Vann. The liner notes point out that “By a happy coincidence the second phrase of the hymn tune is identical to the opening of Vaughan Williams’s Symphony No. 8 which led to the opportunity to quote this and its answering phrase.” This is coupled with a choir performance of RVW’s “upbeat” setting of Lift Up Your Hearts by Henry Montagu Butler (1833-1918) to the same tune.

Sadly, RVW wrote extraordinarily little organ music. Important examples include the powerful Prelude and Fugue in C minor (1921) and the Three Preludes for Organ founded on Welsh hymn tunes (1920). A late offering was the Two Organ Preludes founded on Welsh Folk Songs (1956). These latter evoke pastoral dignity and lyrical warmth. Drawing from traditional melodies the Romanza and Toccata are rich in modal harmony, rhythmic vitality, and folk-inflected charm. They have been sympathetically transcribed for small orchestra by Malcolm Riley.

The final track presents a rousing performance of For All the Saints (Sine Nomine) printed as a processional hymn for the 1906 edition of the great English Hymnal. It is surely one of the best loved ecclesiastical pieces by RVW. Heard here in an inspiring arrangement by Henry Ley made in 1945, it has been stirringly orchestrated for this recording by Malcolm Riley. It matches in effect Elgar’s glorious reworking of Parry’s Jerusalem.

It is redundant to acclaim the vital programme notes by John Francis and Malcolm Riley, the definitive sound recording, and the immaculate performance of this rare repertoire by all the musicians. Just one niggle: dates of composers, their works and arrangements should be given in the track-listing: some are missing from the text.

This album is an eloquent testament to Vaughan Williams’s enduring legacy in hymnody and beyond. From regal splendour to contemplative intimacy, the programme navigates a rich emotional and stylistic landscape, illuminating lesser-known corners of RVW’s catalogue as well as music inspired by him, with reverence and flair. Albion Records continues to champion British musical heritage, inviting listeners into a rich world of sacred song, orchestral colour, and sincere tribute.

Track Listing:
Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958) revised orchestration by David Stone (1922-2016)
All People That on Earth Do Dwell (Old Hundredth) (1953/1966)
Ralph Vaughan Williams
Into the Woods My Master Went (Mantegna) (1931)
Francis Jackson (1917-2022) edited by Malcolm Riley (b.1960)
Homage to Vaughan Williams (Variations on Mantegna), op.26 (c.1960/2025)
Percy Whitlock (1903-46) orchestrated by Malcolm Riley
Prelude on King’s Lynn (1945/2025)
Ralph Vaughan Williams, orchestrated by William H Harris (1883-1973)
O God of Earth and Altar (King’s Lynn) (1906/1924)
Henry G Ley (1887-1962)
Prelude on Down Ampney (1958)
Orlando Gibbons (1583-1625)
Jesu, Grant Me This, I Pray (Song 13) (1623)
Ralph Vaughan Williams arranged for strings by Helen Glatz (1908-96)
Hymn Tune Prelude on ‘Song 13’ (1930/1953)
William H Harris
Eternal Ruler (Song 1) (1930)
Fantasia on an English Folk Tune (Monk’s Gate) (1930)
Ralph Vaughan Williams
Fierce Raged the Tempest (White Gates) (1931)
David Briggs (b.1962)
Carillon on White Gates (2025)
Malcolm Riley
Introit on Magda, op.60 (2025)
Ralph Vaughan Williams
Lift Up Your Hearts (Magda) (1925)
Ralph Vaughan Williams, arranged for strings by Malcolm Riley
Romanza ‘The White Rock’ (1956/2025)
Toccata ‘St. David’s Day’ (1956/2025)
Ralph Vaughan Williams, arranged by Henry G Ley, orchestrated by Malcolm Riley
For All the Saints (Sine Nomine) (1906/1948/2025)
Helen Ashby (soprano), Cara Curran (alto), Tom Castle (tenor), Christopher Webb (bass) (For All the Saints)
Dulwich Choral Society; London Mozart Players; James Orford (organ); William Vann (conductor)
rec. 11-12 April 2025, St. Mildred’s Church, Addiscombe, Croydon,
Albion Records ALBCD067

Arnold Bax: Peter Pan of Music Part II

Completed by D.C. Parker in Glasgow, on 1 April 1922, the following word portrait was published in Musical America, 22 April 1922, p.5.

Of other pieces much could be written. There is, for example, his pretty bulky contribution to pianoforte literature. A Toccata (1913) dedicated to Hamilton Harty, director of the Hallé Concerts in Manchester, is marked allegro brillante. It must certainly be played allegro to have the exhilarating effect intended, and if thus played its brilliance will be plainly evident. Mediterranean (1920) discloses the composer with a modern guitar under his arm - a pleasant fragment, from which, notwithstanding its relative straightforwardness, the commonplace is mercifully absent. This can be said also of A Hill Tune (1920) where, in characteristic manner, the melody is ushered in on the left hand, the right being occupied with groups of five notes. After a brief discussion of it, this theme comes into prominence, to reappear finally in faint and subtle echoes above chords that seem to belong to some enchanted region.

Burlesque (1920) does not belie its title. When he likes, Bax can throw his cap into the air with as much glee as any schoolboy. In this Dionysian work he lets himself go, now piping his little theme in the altitudes, now plunging into the depths of the piano with thirdless chords, or reiterated octaves. A humorous stroke is the variant of the motif in the bass, “quasi fagotto.” [1] The last two- or three-lines ought to carry an audience off its feet. May Night in the Ukraine (1912), another notable addition to piano music, cannot be called conventional. In the Gopak (1912) an almost barbaric theme is tossed about with an immense amount of vigour and abandon. Of In a Vodka Shop (1915), so well-known, it is hardly necessary to speak. The three pieces last mentioned are, I take it, the fruits of a visit which Bax paid to Russia. [2] Add to the above such things, as his Violin Sonata in E, packed full of good stuff, and the effective String Quartet in G, dedicated to Elgar, well written for the instruments, and containing not a dull bar, and you will realize that Bax has contributed his quota to modern music. I do not know whether the songs of Bax are widely known; if not, they should be, if I may judge by those I have heard. Aspiration (1909) strikes me as a pure inspiration. The idea on which it is built up possesses that kind of exaltation which we find so often in Elgar. Parting (1916), to name another, emanated from a poet. To a Christmas Carol (1909) (fifteenth century), the composer imparts an archaic flavour with all the taste and cunning he can command. Very unpretentious is A Milking Sian (1907) and, to notice but one further example, The Enchanted Fiddle (1907) comes from the pen of the exuberant, laughing Bax, who loved that strange figure which came out of the West with a fiddle stolen from a Genoese ship. How unmistakably the music tells us that “earth too was made for laughter!” Bax is not likely to vex himself about the state of parties in the world of musical politics. He is a composer; if you want to know what he has to say, search his music. As will readily be guessed by those who are conversant with his work, in his sight the new is not antagonistic to the old. He realizes that the great majority of people are conservative and incurious; they love to hear the pieces with which they are familiar. There is, naturally, a certain satisfaction in seeing the composer of a work conduct it. But, as he put it to me, “people would like it just the same, even if he stuck his head through a hoop.” This sort of inquisitiveness about a composer is, to his mind, a very shallow thing. Of those who go to see a composer conduct, rather than to hear his music, how many could name one of his compositions a week later? In the course of a recent interview which I had with him, Bax emphasized the necessity for the repetition of modern works. There is a great deal to be said in this connection. No doubt, some pieces is not L’Aprés-midi d’un Faune [3] one of them - now highly esteemed, fell flat at first. When I saw him, he was, he remarked, “snowed up” correcting proofs. Books, and pictures, and music paper galore - that, outwardly, was the setting of the scene in London. But we do not need to be told that, when he chooses, he can rub shoulders with the folk of the fifteenth century, or, like a Peter Pan, fly to those delectable regions of the imagination which he knows so well.

Notes:
[1] Like a basson!
[2] In 1910, Arnold Bax followed Natalia Skarzhinska to Ukraine, where he fell deeply in love. Though the romance faded, it profoundly shaped his emotional world and inspired poetic, Slavic-tinged music.
[3] Debussy’s Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune (1894) is an innovative orchestral work that evokes the dreamy sensuality of Mallarmé’s poem, marking a turning point in modern music.

Concluded

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.