Arthur Bliss’s A Colour Symphony on Decca Vinyl Part II

Bliss’s recording of A Colour Symphony and the Introduction and Allegro were reissued on the popular Ace of Clubs label (ACL 239) during 1964. The sleeve photo is of Gloucester Cathedral and the rear cover replicates the original programme notes.

Edward Greenfield gave a detailed appraisal in The Gramophone (December 1964, p.293). His overview deserves to be quoted in full: “[A] Colour Symphony was the work that first gave Bliss an international reputation in his early thirties. In this country at least it also gave him the reputation of being an enfant terrible, something so absurd in retrospect [that] one can only attribute it to the fact that the first performance was at the 1922 Three Choirs Festival and that the superannuated organists in Gloucester Cathedral must have bristled with alarm at even the most fetching of Bliss's dissonances. For this is very much the work of a young Elgarian who knew his Debussy and who quite honestly did not seem to trouble overmuch about anything after that. Comparatively few hints of Stravinsky's influence, for example, let alone of Schoenberg or Bartók.”

It seems that Greenfield was most impressed by the Finale, which “after opening on a dauntingly angular fugue [it] quickly resolves itself into something quite close to an Elgar march, and the added-note dissonances of the climax need not worry anyone who has gloried in [Rimsky Korsakov’s] The Golden Cockerel. As for the final multiple chord which takes the place of a conventional tonic (could that conceivably have been what worried the organists?), it now sounds like an old-hat jazz ending of the kind Stravinsky aped in the Symphony in Three Movements.”

It is disingenuous for Greenfield to suggest that lack of memorability hindered the Symphony becoming as popular as Holst’s The Planets. Both are characterized by imagination and ‘colourful’ orchestration. Sadly, this critic also considers that the Introduction and Allegro “is another really skillful composition, again failing to achieve the highest distinction merely through comparative lack of memorability in the material.”

Edward Greenfield considered that Bliss’s conducting is “wonderfully convincing” and that this was enhanced by “the recording [that] still sounds extremely well.”

As noted above, in 1971, Decca released A Colour Symphony on their popular Eclipse label (ECS 625). It was coupled with Anthony Collin’s magisterial performance of Edward Elgar’s Falstaff Symphonic Study op. 68. Both works had been ‘re-mastered’ in ‘electronic stereo,’ which was really an attempt at making the old monaural recordings sound better by adding reverberation and ‘tinkering’ with frequency levels. Some commentators felt that the originals were ruined by this ‘Electronically Reprocessed Stereo.’

Trevor Harvey commenting in The Gramophone (July 1971, p.232), considered that the “most valuable contribution of this disc is the reissue of Bliss’s very fine Colour Symphony.” Rashly, but maybe wisely, he recommends that the listener “Take no notice of the colours each movement is headed with and just enjoy it as a symphony.” He concludes his review by stating that this is “a finely original work, full of vitality and beauty…The performance is authoritative, obviously: while the sound is excellent.” As for Elgar’s Falstaff, Harvey considered that Anthony Collins “judges his performance very well indeed, and I found myself as enthralled as ever by Elgar’s masterpiece.”

There was a lowering picture of Great Mell Fell in Cumberland on the record cover. This, like many photographs on Decca Eclipse sleeves was a National Trust property.

Note that the Introduction and Allegro was included on the fourth volume of Decca Eclipse’s Festival of English Music, ECS 649 (1972) and, later ECS 783 (1976), where it was coupled with Bliss’s Violin Concerto and Theme and Cadenza.

Since the final vinyl issue, there have been several reissues of Bliss conducting his Colour Symphony on CD. Twenty-four years later, Dutton Laboratories released Bliss conducts Bliss (CDLXT 2501), remastered by Michael J Dutton. It also featured Baraza from the film Men of Two Worlds, the Introduction and Allegro, the Things to Come Suite recorded by the composer in 1957, as well as some extracts from that film score dating from 1935. Lionel Salter, who appraised the original LP, now writing for The Gramophone (August 1995, p.134) considered that Bliss’s recording was “thrusting and vigorous, dramatic and romantic, [but] it tends at times to outgrow its strength, as it were; but the tension of the scherzo and the finale's double-fugue… point forward to his maturity.” He felt that the Introduction and Allegro was “leaner and more sinewy but just as vigorous” as A Colour Symphony. Finally, Salter considered that the “remastering of the original records is nothing short of amazing” sounding as “if it had been made yesterday.”

In 2013 both works were packaged on the two-CD compilation of Bliss’s music (Vocalion, 2CDBO 9818). This also contained The Beatitudes, the Pastoral: Lie Strewn the White Flocks and the rarely heard March: The Phoenix (In Honour of France).

Heritage Records had one more go at repristinating A Colour Symphony and the Introduction and Allegro. This time it was also coupled with the undoubted, but forgotten, masterwork, Music for Strings. (HTGCD 221, 2011). John Whitmore (MusicWeb International 13 October 2013), states that “this is a gripping, tuneful and uplifting symphony containing some warm hearted and melancholic moments along with flashes of youthful exuberance. The performance given here by the LSO is still the best available on disc and the sound, despite being a transfer from a mono LP, is perfectly enjoyable. This is classic early Decca.” Turning to the Introduction and Allegro, Whitmore states that “I’ve seen this described in some of our esteemed music guides as being a professionally written but unmemorable work. I beg to differ. It’s a cracking piece, bristling with good ideas, pages of elegiac repose and some tremendously exciting climaxes. The music never gets bogged down or threatens to outstay its welcome. It’s always moving forward, and the levels of invention and craftsmanship are high…”

Finally, A Colour Symphony and the Introduction and Allegro were included in the massive 53-disc boxed set, Decca Sound: The Mono Years 1944-1956 (478 7946). The 1955 recording of both pieces are also listed in the Naxos catalogue (9.80004): they are coupled with Paul Hindemith’s Symphony, "Mathis der Maler".

For reference, five other important recordings of Arthur Bliss’s Colour Symphony have been made since 1955. These are the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra/Charles Groves (HMV ASD 3416, 1977), the Ulster Orchestra/Vernon Handley (Chandos ABRD 1213, 1987), the BBC Welsh Symphony Orchestra/Barry Wordsworth (Nimbus NI 5294, 1991), the English Northern Philharmonia/David Lloyd-Jones (Naxos 8.553460, 1996) and finally the BBC National Orchestra of Wales/Richard Hickox (Chandos CHAN 10380, 2006).

Concluded

My next post will be a review of the latest repristination of Bliss's A Colour Symphony, on the Pristine Audio label. This has been released after the original essay was published.

With thanks to the The Arthur Bliss Society Journal where this essay was first published.

Arthur Bliss’s A Colour Symphony on Decca Vinyl Part I

Arthur Bliss’s (1891-1975) recording of his A Colour Symphony (1921-22) was the first album of his music that I owned. This was included on the Decca Eclipse release (ECS 625) dating from 1971. I purchased it in the long-gone record department of Cuthbertson’s music shop in Cambridge Street, Glasgow. If I am truthful, I bought it for Elgar’s Falstaff: Symphonic Study in C minor, op.68, (1913) rather than for the Bliss. Since reading Henry V during ‘O’ Level English lessons, I had been attracted to this larger-than-life character that Hostess Quickly movingly eulogised in Act 2 Scene 3 of the play. Soon, I was reading more of Falstaff’s adventures in The Merry Wives of Windsor. At the same time, I had discovered Walton’s Two Pieces from Henry V: Touch her soft lips and part and the moving passacaglia, The Death of Falstaff.

All this was around 1972. When I got the LP home, I listened to both works. Surprisingly, it was Bliss’s Symphony that really impressed me. Especially so, was the powerful, sparkling, Scherzo (red) and the evocation of water lapping against a stone jetty in the slow movement (blue). A Colour Symphony remains one of my favourite pieces of English music. That said, although I understand the “theory” behind the composer’s colour scheme, I never really “got it” as a listener.

Bliss had been largely ignored by the record firms during the mid-1950s. All that was available at that date on LP or 78rpm disc was the Piano Concerto, Music for Strings, the ballet suites Miracle in the Gorbals and Checkmate, as well as the String Quartet No.2, and Welcome the Queen.

On 23 November 1955, Sir Arthur Bliss walked into the Kingsway Hall, Holborn, London to record two of his most popular works: A Colour Symphony and the Introduction and Allegro. It was the first of a two-day session with the London Symphony Orchestra (LSO). Seven months later, both pieces were released on Decca LXT 5170 (mono). The cover presented a striking abstraction of the four “colours” of the movements in order, top to bottom – Purple, Red, Blue and Green. On the rear of the sleeve were printed programme notes devised by the composer, and which incorporated musical examples.

Two weeks previously, (9-11 November 1955) Bliss had made a recording of his Violin Concerto and the now largely forgotten Theme and Cadenza, at the same venue. The soloist was Alfredo Campoli. This was issued during April 1956 on Decca LXT 5166 (mono). Both albums were to have been the first instalment of Decca’s ‘Bliss by Bliss’ series.

Lionel Salter (The Gramophone, August 1956, p.81) noted that in “this full-blooded performance under [Bliss], one is conscious of his disciplined exuberance at thirty years old, and of the distance he has travelled since: there are moments nevertheless – the dissonant syncopated passage in Red, [and] the optimistic second fugue in Green which point to his fully mature style.” Interestingly, Salter considers that if Bliss were writing it today, he would “probably thin out the scoring.” This tendency was also seen in the other work on this album, Introduction and Allegro, which was written for Leopold Stokowski in 1926. Sadly, this had all but disappeared from the concert repertoire during the mid-1950s. It is a situation that it has not recovered from, nearly 70 years later. Salter wonders if the Introduction and Allegro has simply been eclipsed because “Elgar has made the title peculiarly his own.”  Overall, the critic considered that Bliss “secures a convincing performance from the LSO” despite some moments when the “ensemble could have been better.” Finally, he is impressed by the “perfectly respectable” recording.

Edward Greenfield, (The Manchester Guardian 13 August 1956, p.3) began by wondering if it “is the fate of Masters of the Queen’s (or King’s) Music that something (perhaps their cloaks of respectability?) apparently conceals them from the eyes of the record companies.” Fortunately, Decca had “at last made up for any neglect…with [the present disk] and the recent Violin Concerto and the Theme and Cadenza…” He concludes by stating that “this is all finely wrought music with many exciting moments.” If one occasionally loses concentration during the performance, “it is partly due to the similarity of idiom to film-music.” Greenfield’s sting in the tale is that “Sir Arthur’s part in establishing this genre may have done a nasty trick on him.” This is not a sentiment that would be levelled against Bliss in 2023.

Other notices included Desmond Shawe-Taylor’s review in the Observer (23 September 1956, p.10) where he notes the “flamboyant” performance and the “fine recordings with the composer at the desk.” The Truth’s (28 September 1956, p.1118) newspaper correspondent, Trevor Gee reported that “Sir Arthur Bliss is another of our composers who has been making headway in the gramophone repertory lately…” He commended the “exhilarating performance of his early Colour Symphony…The time is long overdue for this full-blooded music to take its proper place in the concert hall beside Elgar and Vaughan Williams.” Sadly, in the 2020s Bliss’s orchestral works are rarely heard ‘live.’ Finally, Percy Cater in the Daily Mail (3 October 1956, p.8) stated that the “symphony shows that even back in 1922, Bliss could sustain ideas through rich textures.” Another back-handed comment, perhaps?

Listeners had to wait until the following year for The Times critic (possibly Frank Howes) to pass judgement on this record (June 8, 1957, p.9). This was a major assessment of several important recordings of British symphonies, which encompassed Edward Elgar’s Second, Robert Simpson’s First, and Ralph Vaughan Williams’s Eighth. Turning to Bliss, he reminds readers that A Colour Symphony was a commission for the Three Choirs Festival and “was received with some doubts at its first performance in 1922.” It was revived at the Hereford Festival in 1955, “when it caused no head shaking, but was recognized as a work as rich in imagination as in orchestral colours.” Examining the new LP, he suggests that “it was high time that a symphony so characteristic of Bliss in its mettlesome but disciplined exuberance should be recorded.” The result is good with “depth and transparency” obtained in the performance and by the engineers. That said, he felt that the “colours come up well, though the scoring is heavy and the texture thick.”

To be continued…

With thanks to The Arthur Bliss Society Journal where this essay was first published

British Cello Works: Volume 3

Despite his short life, English composer William Hurlstone left behind a small but outstanding catalogue, including pieces like Variations on a Swedish Air, the Piano Concerto in D major and the Magic Mirror Suite, based on the fairy tale of Snow White. Hurlstone displayed an extraordinary talent, which was recognized early on by his teacher, Sir Charles Villiers Stanford, who considered him the most gifted of his students. Sadly, his music is rarely performed today.

Although not well received by the Times critic at its premiere performance, the Cello Sonata in D major has come to be regarded as a minor masterpiece, the Sonata was written for the cellist May Mukle. With four well balanced movements, the slow movement and the “playful” Scherzo stand out as highlights. The ‘refrain’ of the concluding Rondo has features that Thomas Dunhill regarded as being “unmistakably English in spirit.”  Certainly, this sweeping theme provides a good foil to some of the more reflective moments as the movement progresses. The impact of Brahms is keenly felt as the sonata unfolds. Other stylistic influences include Schumann and Elgar. Yet, the overall impact is none the worse for these debts.

Most pianists of a certain age will have come across Felix Swinstead in their studies. Swinstead was an English pianist and composer, known for his educational piano music. He studied at the Royal Academy of Music and later became a professor there. He produced around two hundred pieces, mainly for the piano, including Fancy Free and Work and Play. He was known for his recitals and international tours.

The liner notes explain that the present Cello Sonata is undated but may well have been written shortly before Swinstead’s death. There are no details of any performances or even a “run-through.” After a dramatic opening flourish, the first movement Allegro devolves into a charming “strolling tune.” Much of the succeeding music is warm hearted and downright lyrical. The Adagio is a different matter. Dusk shrouds the proceedings with the main theme being “a wistful, folk-like tune with a decidedly Celtic lilt.” The finale, an Allegro deciso, has all the hallmarks of English light music, as the two main themes explore moods of happiness and of “Elgarian radiance.” This is a delightful Cello Sonata that makes no demands on the listener and is thoroughly enjoyable from the first note to the last. It should be in every duo’s repertoire.

Doreen Carwithen has made a remarkable impact on the record scene in recent years. Most of her orchestral works have been issued on CD. There are albums featuring her chamber music and a few songs. I am guessing that this is the premiere recording of her Cello Sonatina, although this is not stated on the cover.

Carwithen’s Sonata was completed around 1946. The form is in three movements, with the central one being the fast one. The opening Andante is melancholy and sometimes troubled. The Allegro is a breath of fresh air, with lots of questions and answers between instruments. It sounds technically demanding. The final movement returns to the melancholic mood, as the cello weaves a tender and serene melody. It is another example of a work which begs the question, “Why is it not heard in the recital rooms?”

Unfortunately, the track listing gives this as Sonata in E minor for cello and piano, op.132 (1951). These are the details of an example by Cecil Armstrong Gibbs!

Two other short numbers by Carwithen are included: the introspective Nocturne and the energetic Humoresque. They date from 1943.

The English composer, violist, and conductor, Frank Bridge needs little introduction in these pages. Save to say he is well remembered for his chamber music and orchestral works. The fact that he was a mentor to Benjamin Britten, tends to detract from the appreciation of his own work. Bridge's compositions evolved from romanticism to a more modernist style, reflecting the emotional and societal shifts of his time.

Since hearing the Rostropovich/Britten recording (Decca SLX 6426) of Bridge’s Sonata in D minor for cello and piano, back in the early 1970s, this has been one of my Desert Island works. It has everything: from high romanticism to hints of Bergian “modernism.”

The Sonata took four years to finish, being started in 1913 and concluded in 1917. Its gestation thus spans the years of the First World War. Other major chamber works from Bridge’s pen during this period includes the Sextet (1912) and the String Quartet No. 2 in G Minor (1915).

The clue to appreciating Bridge’s Cello Sonata is to see the “fundamental dichotomy between a pre-war pastoralism and the angry reaction to the horrors of the conflict. It is presented in two movements: Allegro ben moderato and Adagio ma non troppo. The first is a celebration of the high-water mark of Edwardian triumphalism and has echoes of Brahms and even Rachmaninov. The second, is fraught with grief and angst, but comes to a surprisingly optimistic conclusion. It is given a superb performance here by Handy and Walsh.

The track listing on the rear cover of the CD states that Frank Bridge’s dates are (1913-76) and that the cello sonata dates from 1961! It is not the Sonata in C for cello and piano, op.60 (1961). This one belongs to Benjamin Britten.

The liner notes by Paul Conway are to the usual high standard, forming an essay-long introduction to the composers and the music. No resume of the two soloists is included.

All this music is played with obvious skill and enthusiasm. The Swinstead is my discovery on this album, but the Bridge is the highlight (for me), and I will certainly listen to this version many times in the future.

Track Listing:
William Hurlstone (1876-1906)
Cello Sonata in D major (1899)
Felix Swinstead (1880-1959)
Cello Sonata (date unknown)
Doreen Carwithen (1922-2003)
Cello Sonatina (1946)
Nocturne (1943)
Humoresque (1943)
Frank Bridge (1879-1941)
Sonata in D minor for cello and piano, H.125 (1913-17)
Lionel Handy (cello), Jennifer Walsh (piano)
rec. 23-24 March 2024, Winchester College.
Lyrita SRCD.441