Constant Lambert’s Some Recent Works by William Walton Part 2

Constant Lambert continues his 1928 discussion of some "recent works" of William Walton: 

The music for the entertainment Façade [1] includes, in its different versions, work ranging over several years, although the only published numbers are of recent date. For the benefit of those who have not heard Façade it may be explained that the entertainment consists of a series of poems by Miss Edith Sitwell, spoken through a megaphone to the accompaniment of six instruments, namely, flute, clarinet, saxophone, trumpet, 'cello and percussion. Both orchestra and reciter are concealed by a screen decorated with a large mask, through the mouth of which the megaphone protrudes. The poems are recited, for the most part, 'senza espressione', but with the utmost precision and variety of rhythm.

The collaboration is most successful, and one can think of no other composer who could so well supply the musical equivalent of what has been admirably described as 'the hallucinated vision, the glassily clear technique, the curiously profound wit of Edith Sitwell's poems. In the early version of' Façade the music did little save add a background of strange arabesques and unexpected timbres to the poems; in the later versions, the music is much more clearly formed and there is a greater wealth of thematic material. The orchestral suite, though a very enjoyable work, represents only one side of Façade, for the composer has chosen the more brilliant and satirical numbers for adaptation and one may search in vain for the pastoral charm of 'Daphne' or the sinister atmosphere of 'Four in the Morning'. The composer has kept closely- and in my opinion, too closely - to the form and rhythm of the poems. He has not always realized that certain passages have but little meaning when divorced from their peculiar method of presentation; thus, in the fourth number we are given nothing save a rather perfunctory crescendo passage to take the place of the brilliant cadenza for voice which (in the entertainment) leads from the tango to the pasodoble.

The only piece in which he has departed from the original form of the poem is the Tarantella-Sevillana, [2] perhaps the most successful number in the suite, where the original material has been considerably expanded into a brilliant burlesque of the 'Mediterranean' style.

Siesta, [3] a charmingly scored piece for small orchestra, may at a first hearing strike one as being rather slight, yet is nevertheless very solidly and ingeniously put together. To those ignorant of Walton's early work or of the unpublished numbers of' Façade' the quiet melancholy of this piece may come as a surprise, though in reality it is more typical of the composer than the boisterous high spirits of' Portsmouth Point.

Both emotionally and technically speaking, this piece represents a transition. The ingenious counterpoints and cross rhythms of the quiet first section foreshadow the slow movement of the Piano Concerto, while the nonchalant waltz-tune with which the work ends might have come out of' Façade 'for there is a sadness underlying its apparent frivolity that is reminiscent of much in Miss Edith Sitwell's poetry.

After Siesta there was a distinct pause in the composer's output, but clearly it was a case of' ‘reculer pour mieux sauter’ (delaying the inevitable), for with his last work, the Sinfonia Concertante, Walton more than fulfils the high hopes raised by 'Portsmouth Point' and 'Façade'.

It is to be noticed that when a composer has at last attained assurance both in his ideas and their execution, his work has more in common with his earliest compositions than with those immediately preceding his last work. The composer often expresses his personality more completely in his first tentative efforts than in more proficient but less subjective work. that succeed them. When we find that a composer is able to express with the assurance won by his later works the essential thought of his earlier works, we may be confident that he is on the right track, and so it is with pleasure that we notice in the Sinfonia Concertante [4] not only the brilliance of Portsmouth Point and a Façade but also the deep feeling of the best parts in the early piano quartet. The not too suitable title might perhaps lead the ignorant to expect the usual up-to-date pastiche of the classical manner (based for the most part on material that Bach or Handel would have disdained to use for a bridge passage) but the classicism of the Sinfonia Concertante lies not in any external mannerisms but in the absolute concision of form with which is expressed a genuine emotion. 

This work is an advance toward both a greater richness and a greater simplicity. A certain unnecessary complication has hitherto been a feature of nearly all Walton's work (the only criticism would make of Portsmouth Point, for instance, is that its difficulty is out of proportion to its length and scope); and even the Sinfonia he seems at times strangely uninclined to present his ideas with the bareness that would actually throw them into higher relief than does the rich but not always essential arabesque with which he surrounds them. This stricture aside, however, one can but admire the concision originality of form, the wealth of vigorous thematic material and the ease, reminiscent of Borodin at his best, with which these themes are combined. The slow movement with its delightful cross-rhythm is perhaps the most satisfying, but the work is essentially a whole and the coda of the scherzo-finale, in which the themes of the previous movements are freely woven together, is no mere academic device but the natural consequence of the ideas themselves.

Those critics, whether amateur or professional, whose one interest in a work lies in the detection of influences may murmur ‘Prokofiev’ at one or two passages, but if he has in any way derived from the Russian composer it has been from his best qualities, his clarity and his lyricism, for the Sinfonia Concertante is entirely free from the empty virtuosity that spoils so much of Prokofiev's otherwise admirable work. The entire absence of affectation (whether the urbane affectation of the Parisians or the bucolic affectation of the English) would alone earn it distinction, and to my mind it is not only the most satisfactory of modern concertos but one of the finest works of this decade.

Naturally one cannot tell as yet whether this work is merely a passing efflorescence of Walton's talent or whether it is the beginning of a series of fine works: the composer's progress, though outwardly erratic, has in reality been steady, and if while maintaining his past brilliance he can remain unmoved by the petty vogues and reactions which trouble the musical world of to-day, there is every hope that his last compositions are but a presage of what is to follow. He has already given proof of such vitality and fecundity of imagination that the musical world will look forward to his next important work; one can form but little idea of his future development save that of all modern composers he is the least likely to remain in a groove.

The Dominant Volume 1. No.4 February 1928 p.16-19. 

Notes:

[1] Façade needs little introduction. It has been assessed as Walton’s most mercurial creation, evolving from the private 1922 “entertainments” with Edith Sitwell’s recited poems into a sequence of orchestral suites and later a full ballet. Its characteristic is the fusion of modernist wit, popular dance rhythms, and incisive instrumental colour, all supporting Sitwell’s surreal verbal gymnastics. The original chamber ensemble gave the music a cabaret‑like sparkle; the later orchestral incarnations expand its brilliance without losing its sly, jazzy edge. Across all versions, Façade remains a uniquely stylish hybrid - satirical, quick‑witted, and irresistibly theatrical.

[2] The Tarantella‑Sevillana does not appear in the original recitation version of Façade, but it is included as the concluding number of Suite No. 1. Walton added it to the suite because its brilliant orchestral colour and high‑spirited rhythmic drive made an ideal, crowd‑pleasing finale for the concert‑hall incarnation of Façade.

[3] Siesta (1926) is one of Walton’s most captivating early miniatures, a warm, unhurried evocation of Mediterranean heat. Its gently rocking rhythms, soft brass colours and wistful melodic turns suggest a lazy afternoon drifting by. The piece is brief, but its atmosphere is unmistakable: sun‑drenched, slightly nostalgic, and already showing Walton’s knack for clear, elegant orchestral writing without any hint of grandstanding.

[4] The Sinfonia Concertante was composed in 1926–27 as a ballet score for Diaghilev, who rejected it. Walton then reworked the material into the present three‑movement work for piano and orchestra. It received its premiere at London’s Queen’s Hall on 5 January 1928 in a Royal Philharmonic Society concert broadcast by the BBC, with York Bowen as soloist and Ernest Ansermet conducting the Royal Philharmonic Society Orchestra. Walton later described the first performance as “bloody, though the applause tumultuous. The work was terribly under‑rehearsed; in fact, the players just about knew the notes and that was all.” The Sinfonia Concertante is a bright, sharp‑edged early Walton score, full of rhythmic sparkle, neo‑classical poise, and a distinctly urban wit. Its percussive piano writing and lean, 

glittering orchestration give the whole work a youthful, slightly ironic brilliance rather than any claim to profundity.

In closing, this essay traces William Walton’s artistic maturation, arguing that his early, eclectic experiments with atonality and jazz prepared him to forge a distinctly national yet globally appealing voice. The author positions the overture Portsmouth Point as Walton's breakthrough, praising its concise form, diatonic clarity, and sophisticated, non-formulaic integration of jazz rhythms. Through analyses of the mixed-media entertainment Façade, the melancholic transition piece Siesta, and the Sinfonia Concertante, the author commends Walton's trajectory toward formal economy and emotional depth.

Written with an engaging, assertive, and contemporary (1928) critical voice, the essay successfully balances technical insight with accessible aesthetic evaluation. Its primary strength lies in its nuanced defence of Walton's eclecticism, correctly identifying how diverse influences - from Catalan folk dances to jazz - combine into a cohesive style rather than a derivative pastiche.

However, the text occasionally suffers from sweeping generalisations, particularly its dismissive attitude toward contemporary British nationalism (RVW?) and its rigid critiques of Schoenberg and Prokofiev. The final paragraph leans toward repetitive speculation regarding Walton's future. Despite these minor flaws, it remains a compelling, historically grounded defence of Walton’s early genius.

Concluded.