Edward Cowie: Darkness into Light

The outstanding booklet notes by Edward Cowie offer an exceptionally detailed introduction to the four works on this disc, with further commentary from flautist Laura Chislett and harpist Alice Giles. The booklet is generously illustrated with photographs of the performers and examples of Cowie’s pre‑compositional art studies, while the cover reproduces Darkness into Light, a painting by Heather Cowie. I have drawn extensively on these programme notes in developing my review.

The disc opens with La Primavera - Nine Figures in an Orange Garden (2022). This suite for solo flute is an evocation of Sandro Botticelli’s legendary painting La Primavera. Cowie notes that this “massive work” radiates light and movements. It is on display at the Uffizi Gallery in Firenze. The gallery website explains that “although the complex meaning of the composition remains a mystery, the painting is a celebration of love, peace, and prosperity.”

La Primavera has seven sections preceded by a Prelude: The Orange Garden, which sets the scene. The musical journey follows the painting right to left. Here, Zephyrus is embracing a nymph named Chloris before abducting and marrying her, then transforming her into Flora, the spring goddess. The central figure in the painting is Venus, the goddess of love and beauty. Over her Cupid is firing his arrow of love. Then there are the Three Graces: Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Thalia. Lastly, in the final movement, Mercury prepares to take wing. The liner notes suggest that Zephyrus "blows" the listener into the music and Mercury "flies" them out at the end.

The soloist creates “the limpid and hugely flexible sonorities” of the characters, with the flautist’s breath symbolising the wind god Zephyrus. Cowie’s composition embraces complexity, contrasting sharply with Vivaldi’s pastoral, dance-like eponymous Spring, from the Four Seasons, by exploring the shifting terrain of human mood and memory.

“Extended techniques” and occasional vocalisation is required, which to my ear spoils the overall impact. However, Cowie told me that he felt it necessary to take music from the flute to human throat and that he took tiny fragments from Dante to do it! Still, it remains an impressive piece, played by Laura Chislett. Whether heard with the cast in mind or simply as an ‘experience,’ it is an attractive, impressionistic work. One thought lingers: is the entire suite ultimately just a shimmer of light across the painting that inspired the composer?

I guess since having first seen Punch and Judy on the promenade at Fleetwood, Lancashire, I have had a soft spot for Harlequin and the 16th-century Commedia dell’arte. Cowie has produced several works inspired by this tradition, including his opera Commedia, Columbine for soprano and chamber orchestra, Commedia Lazzi for solo guitar, and Harlequin for solo harp dating from 1979. In 2019, Cowie “re-shaped and re-composed” this latter piece to incorporate a deeper understanding of the harp and its possibilities.

Harlequin Dances for solo harp, depicts the protagonist’s “suicide lazzi” where he rehearses “dancing himself to death” after being rejected in love. The work is highly percussive, using pedal buzzes, slides, and soundboard knocks. The form presents complementary sections of “restless” passages and bell-like harmonics. Although ostensibly an entertainment, it is a black comedy. Harlequin tries out numerous methods of self-destruction – tickling himself to death, hanging himself from a small bush, drowning himself in a jug of ale (how many of us have nearly done that?) and “dancing himself to death.” It is this final “method” that is the focus this piece. Ignore the programme if you wish but be aware of the "transcendental beauty" found within human despair and loneliness.

It may not come as a surprise to find that Australian Water Music for flute and harp (2025?) was inspired by Handel’s semi eponymous suite dating from 1717, which was commissioned in response to King George I’s wish for a concert on the Thames. Beyond that, however, there is little comparison.

The suite was written specifically for the "superb brilliance" of harpist Alice Giles and flautist Laura Chislett and was designed to exploit the "tremendous velocities" and expressive richness of both instruments. Sadly, there is a movement missing: due to recording and rehearsal time constraints, a section evoking the Great Barrier Reef was omitted. The three remaining ones focus on specific Australian locations: Kiama Blowhole in New South Wales, Black Swans at Dangar Lagoon, again in New South Wales and finally Humpback Whales – Hervey Bay in Queensland. The three movements of Australian Water Music reflect the behaviour of water in contrasting states: fountains, “limpid placid pools,” and coastlines.

The liner notes suggest allusions to the “liquid” qualities of water, evoking the sound-worlds of Debussy and Ravel. A listener might be reminded of Debussy’s Syrinx for solo flute, or Ravel’s Introduction and Allegro for flute, clarinet, harp, and string quartet.

While both instruments carry their own invention, the duet also makes use of a ritornello form, where thematic materials are reworked in a lively dialogue. The performers employ “extended techniques,” including knockings on wood, scraping strings, overblowing, and exploring the extreme upper registers in the harp. The overall impact is characterised by colour, imagination, and a “wondrous iridescence.” This exquisitely played piece makes a splendid addition to the relatively rare combination of flute and harp.

Cowie explains that Darkness into Light (2025) was inspired by a series of paintings by his wife Heather titled Into the Deeps. This sequence depicted the colour shift from the "deepest, darkest blues" of the ocean abyss to "shimmering aquamarines" at the surface. To add to the uncertainty, it is explained that the performers had got into the “groove” by swimming (individually) in the waters of the Great Barrier Reef. In the subsequent improvisation they share their (presumably varied) experiences of transitioning from shallow, luminescent waters to the "impenetrable" blackness of the reef edge. Add to this, there is an implied “metaphorical journey” representing the progress of the mind and spirit from darkness into “divine Light” and it gives a clue as to what the piece should be like.

Cowie notes that there was initial “bemused doubt” from the performers about improvising this track, especially without using a pre-written score. It begs the question, was there any “given” material, or did they all just do their own thing: could they recreate the experience? Or would they want to? There is a danger that the divine light becomes a one-time accident.

My opinion is that there are some lovely sounds, especially from the flute. Lots of extended techniques on the piano and the harp are deployed, but mostly it functions as an atmospheric backdrop rather than a careful exploration of Cowie’s usually complex metaphors. It leaves me pondering where his vision ends and where the performers’ intuition begins. For me, the “shimmering aquamarines' are beautiful, but I still find myself yearning for the solid ground of a definitive score."

This is a beautifully presented recording. The sound quality is ideal for this intimate exploration of flute, harp, and piano music. Even if the repertoire is not your “bag” there is no doubt that the performance is brilliant. I have already mentioned the disc documentation. Dates of each work would have been useful.

Despite my reservations regarding the improvisational elements and occasional vocalisations, this is an absorbing release. The Métier label has provided another stunning disc of Edward Cowie’s unique, nature-inspired sound-world. Supported by virtuoso performances and lavish documentation, this disc is a must-buy for enthusiasts of contemporary chamber music.

Track Listing:
Edward Cowie (b.1943)
La Primavera – Nine Figures in an Orange Garden, for solo flute (2022)
Harlequin Dances, for solo harp (1979/2019)
Australian Water Music for flute and harp (2025?)
Darkness into Light: Improvisation for flute, harp, and piano (2025)
Laura Chislett (flute), Alice Giles (harp), Edward Cowie (piano)
rec. 8-9 June 2025, The Wesley Centre, Canberra, Australia
Métier MEX77143
With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published.

Robert Farnon: Concorde March (1969)

I never had the opportunity to fly by the Anglo‑French Concorde supersonic airliner. But I did see one of the twenty aircraft a few times, most memorably as it swept over the Severn Estuary. Conceived in the late 1950s, Concorde finally took to the skies in 1969 and entered commercial service some six or seven years later. For a brief period, it embodied the glamour and optimism of a new technological age: the sleek delta‑winged silhouette, the droop‑nose, and the promise of transatlantic crossings in under three hours made it an icon long before its first paying passengers boarded. Its Anglo‑French pedigree also gave it a diplomatic sheen - an engineering partnership that survived political turbulence, budgetary wrangling, and fierce American competition. Sadly, the brand did not endure; the final flights took place in 2003, bringing the supersonic era to a close.

To commemorate the aircraft’s premiere flight, British air industry commissioned a march from the well‑known composer Robert Farnon. Best known for his “light” music, Farnon was equally adept at film scores and more substantial concert works, and the Concorde March leans more towards the cinematic than the bubbly charm of his lighter pieces. It opens with a bold, brass‑led fanfare whose rising intervals mirror the aircraft’s dramatic take‑off profile. The main theme evokes both the glamour of air travel and the futuristic sheen of the new airliner. A more lyrical trio section offers a sense of airborne spaciousness before the triumphant return of the main theme, now burnished with added orchestral weight. The result is unmistakably Farnon - polished, confident, and effortlessly evocative.

British Airways used the march in promotional events surrounding Concorde’s introduction into service, and although not conceived as a concert piece, it quickly attracted interest from broadcasters and light‑music enthusiasts. William Kreindler, writing for MusicWeb International (July 2019), notes that the march was recorded by Farnon and the London Symphony Orchestra and issued by the nascent CRD label as a single, coupled with Holiday Flight (c.1958). The release has since become something of a collector’s item, not least for its glossy, close‑miked orchestral sound. Holiday Flight makes an apt “flip-side” companion - an earlier, jaunty evocation of carefree post‑war travel that contrasts neatly with the sleek modernity of the Concorde tribute.

Listen to Robert Farnon conducting the London Symphony Orchestra in the Concorde March, here.

Carl Czerny: Piano Music, Volume Two

There can be few aspiring pianists who have not encountered Carl Czerny’s pedagogical albums. Whether it is The School for Velocity, op.299, or the Art of Finger Dexterity, op. 740, his studies have become a rite of passage for generations of students. He produced a vast quantity of music, with more than 860 opus numbers and many without formal designation. Most of this corpus was written for pianoforte – either solo or for four hands. Any record company wishing to issue a collected edition has its work cut out, potentially requiring decades of subsequent releases. However, that does not mean that Czerny should be ignored. Presto Music currently lists more than two hundred recordings that are dedicated to or featuring pieces by him, and this new disc is a valuable and welcome addition to his discography.

A few words about the composer may be of interest. Carl Czerny (1791–1857) was born in Vienna to a musical family. A precocious talent, he was already performing major keyboard music from memory by the age of ten. Introduced to Beethoven by the violinist Wenzel Krumpholz, he became the elder man’s devoted pupil and protégé, later absorbing influences from Hummel and Clementi. Though often in demand as a performer, Czerny avoided public concerts and devoted himself to teaching, composition, and the arrangement of classical works. His pupils included the young Liszt, whose talent he immediately recognised. A tireless creator, Czerny wrote nearly a thousand published compositions and left vast manuscript holdings, ranging from masses and symphonies to chamber music and the above-mentioned studies. Gentle, modest, and reclusive, he lived simply, travelled rarely, and bequeathed his considerable fortune to charitable purposes before his death in 1857.

The repertoire on this CD presents four pieces: two for two pianos and two for piano four hands. There is no doubt that they were devised to dazzle the salons of Biedermeier Vienna. The listener will note that three of them include the word “brilliant” in their titles as a testament to their dazzling and extroverted character.

The recital opens with the operatic virtuosity of the Grandes Variations brillantes et concertantes pour deux Pianofortes sur un Thème favori de l’Opéra Montecchi e Capuleti, op.285. Based on melodies from Vincenzo Bellini’s 1830 opera reworking the Romeo and Juliet story, Czerny published these Variations just three years after the opera’s premiere. While it exists in multiple versions - including solo piano, string quartet, and full orchestra - the two-piano arrangement is particularly striking.

As the detailed analysis in the notes explains, it opens with a slow introduction with dramatic runs and hemidemisemiquavers (64^th notes) followed by a filigree cadenza. A naïve B-flat major theme from Romeo’s Act 1 aria then gives way to six variations. These traverse a wide landscape of textures and tempi: rapid scales, arpeggios, broken octaves, and swift sextuplets and triplets, polyrhythms, and brilliant cadenzas. A moment of calm appears with a lyrical, almost Chopin-esque Andante. The Grandes Variations concludes with a Finale, a blazing Molto Allegro and a powerful finish in the "home key." How the two soloists hold all this together is nothing short of a miracle.

The Rondeau brillant in B-Flat Major, op.321, for piano duet (pub.1837) has been described as a sparkling, extended, and busy salon piece. Not as over the top as the preceding work, it is full of attractive pianism. This is in classic rondo form but dispenses with a slow introduction. The principal theme is a relaxed Allegretto con vivacità succeeded by episodes that are “taut” and then playful. It concludes with a vivacious coda.

For all intents and purposes Czerny’s Duo Brillant et Concertant pour Deux Pianos in B flat, op.358 is a piano concerto without “the band.” It was published in 1835 and dedicated to his pupil, the German pianist and composer, Theodor Döhler. The opening movement, Allegro con brio, is presented in a “loose” sonata form with the first subject being lyrical and the second “trill-laden.” These are developed with considerable interest. The Andante con moto is a set of variations, which advance well beyond a typical “slow movement”: lots of rapid piano figuration, chromatic scales, and arpeggios. The Duo Brillant et Concertant concludes with a cheerful Allegro vivace that swings through a series of keys and some lovely melodic digressions, ending in a riotous conclusion. The liner notes quote the musicologist Maurice Hinson’s comment about this Duo Brillant being “In a conservative Romantic vein but requires a healthy dose of virtuoso fireworks.” Great stuff.

The disc closes with the Fantaisie et Variations à Quatre Mains sur l’Opéra de Bellini ‘I Puritani,’ op.376 (1837), a four‑hand tribute to Bellini’s final masterpiece from 1835. I Puritani, set in English Civil War Plymouth, explores the trials of the Royalist lovers Elvira and Arturo, whose ordeal of war, betrayal, and madness is finally resolved when a last‑minute pardon restores Elvira’s reason and happiness.

Czerny builds his Fantaisie around Elvira’s Act II aria, “Vien, diletto, è in ciel la luna!” sung in her delirium after Arturo’s disappearance. A gloomy introduction, coloured by a few dramatic detours, leads to the poised statement of the theme. Four variations develop, each more elaborate than the last, save for the third, which relaxes into a lyrical, song-like mood. After an energetic Allegro vivace and a more inward Andante espressivo - effectively the fourth variation - the music presses on to its Finale. Here Czerny unleashes buoyant, dance‑like ideas and bright, trumpet‑like calls, all driving toward a spirited Presto codetta that brings matters home in the key of the original theme.

Jingshu Zhao, born in Wuhan in 1991, trained at the Shanghai and San Francisco Conservatories before completing her DMA at the University of North Texas. She has performed widely across China and the United States and has earned prizes in a range of national and international competitions. Her debut recording for Toccata Classics, Volume 1 of Czerny’s piano music, (reviewed on MusicWeb International, here) was warmly received by critics. She currently teaches at Huaibei Normal University.

Haoyue Liang likewise holds a DMA from the University of North Texas, following earlier studies in Shanghai and San Francisco. Active as a soloist and chamber musician, he performed regularly with the University of North Texas Wind Symphony and appeared in major Texas venues. A recipient of several international competition awards, he has taught extensively, serving as a festival adjudicator and teaching at the Irving Fine Arts Academy. His research interests also include Performing Arts Health, a field in which he has presented conference work.

The recording is ideal, complementing a superb performance revealing all the intricate detail of the piano figurations. The liner notes are in two parts: An Overview by Martin Eastwick and a “Closer Look” at the music provided by William Melton. The latter section is particularly useful as these are all premiere recordings with little information available otherwise to listeners. Resumes of the performers are included.

In summary, this new disc from Toccata offers vibrant performances of Czerny’s brilliant duets. Zhao and Liang possess the requisite "healthy dose of virtuoso fireworks" to bring these lost delights to life, supported by an excellent sound. It is a rewarding hour or so of music that proves Czerny was far more than a pedagogue; he was a master of the salon and a composer of genuine charm.

Track Listing:
Carl Czerny (1791-1857)
Grandes Variations brillantes et concertantes pour deux Pianofortes sur un Thème favori de l’Opéra Montecchi e Capuleti, op.285 (1833)
Rondo Brillant in B-Flat Major, op.321, for piano duet (1837)
Duo Brillant et Concertant pour Deux Pianos in B flat, op.358 (1835)
Fantaisie et Variations à Quatre Mains sur l’Opéra de Bellini ‘I Puritani,’ op.376 (1837)
Jingshu Zhao (piano), Haoyue Liang (piano)
rec. 23-24 July and 1-2 September 2025, West Road Concert Hall, Cambridge, England
Toccata Classics TOCC0791 

With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published.

Minor Masterpieces of Organ Music No.5: John Ireland’s Capriccio

John Ireland is not the first English composer that an organist would consider when assembling a programme for a recital. His best-known works are the piano miniature The Holy Boy, the song Sea Fever, and his anthem Greater Love Hath no Man.

I first discovered him in 1973 when a friend of mine at Coatbridge High School sang If there were dreams to sell, a setting of Thomas Lovell Beddoes’s unpretentious, if slightly melancholic poem. Since that time, I have explored Ireland’s compositions which include more songs, much interesting chamber music, some impressive orchestral pieces, and an important corpus of piano works. His style tended towards French Impressionism and Romantic expressiveness, often infused by a native mysticism. This latter was inspired by his reading of the Welsh author Arthur Machen and his sympathetic reaction to the ancient landscapes of the Channel Islands, Dorset, and Sussex.

Ireland’s output for organ was largely completed over a brief period between 1902 and 1912, with a final notable offering, Meditation on John Keble’s Rogationtide Hymn as late as 1958. These include the Elegiac Romance (1902), a Miniature Suite (c.1905), and the solemn Sursum Corda (1911).

The Capriccio dates from 1911 and was dedicated to H.L. Balfour, at that time the organist at Holy Trinity, Sloane Street, London. It was published in The Organ Recitalist, No.23, by Stainer and Bell, in that year. Contemporaneously, Ireland was organist at St Luke’s Church, Chelsea.

Unusually for John Ireland, who normally explored themes of solitude, longing, and transcendence, the Capriccio is characterised by wit, bravura, and technical prowess. It is of interest as acting as a bridge between the early 20^th century Edwardian English organ tradition and a later, more modernist mood, being a move away from pastoral lyricism towards a more continental sophistication.

Formally, the Capriccio could be defined as a modified rondo, (recurring theme with more or less related episodes) or a perpetuum mobile (unceasing motion driven by relentless rhythmic energy). The progress of this six-minute piece moves from intimate moments to shattering tuttis, even calling for a tuba stop (where available). A large three or four manual organ is required for maximum effect.

Fig.1

The opening bars (Fig.1) set up the mood with semiquavers accompanying a four-bar phrase of straight quavers introduced by “impudent” grace notes. This roiling mood is repeated and then varied with some subtle syncopation. 

Fig.2

The first episode (Fig.2) is quieter, calling on a clarinet solo on the Choir or Great organ. Then the return of the principal theme is recalled, slightly varied. The second episode is heard on the Choir flutes. From this point, it builds up with a “long crescendo” This is interrupted by a final reprise of the opening, before the work ends with a powerful march-like coda, using the tuba stop, calling for full organ and a final ffff chord in the home key.

The Capriccio is ostensibly in C major, but typical of Ireland’s style there are many passing modulations. Harmonically, it features chromaticism and modality, echoing influences from French Impressionism and the English pastoral school, though with a more urban, whimsical character.

A contemporary review in the Musical Times, (June 1912, p.384) stated:

“Among those modern composers who are endeavouring to raise the standard of organ music must be included the name of Mr. John Ireland. He proves that while it is not necessary to sustain the organ's reputation by writing a Fugue, it is quite possible to present acceptable examples in lighter form and yet to maintain the true character of the instrument. The Capriccio is admirably written, and while within the powers of those possessing even moderate technical skill, should prove a charming addition to the programme of many an organ recital.” Organists should be aware that this work depends on more than “moderate technical skill.”

To this end, Peter Hardwick, in his essential British Organ Music of the Twentieth Century (The Scarecrow Press, 2002, p.94), states that: “a good keyboard technique is…called for in order to execute the saucy little sixteenth-note accompanimental figurations, the principal melody’s impudent grace notes and passages that require the crossing of hands.”

Finally, commentators have noticed the potential of more “popular audience appeal” with the Capriccio, than any of his other pieces for this instrument. Part of this is the obvious “cinema organ” (despite this instrument only beginning to appear in 1911) sound apparent from the opening bars. It would make a popular encore, with the audience most definitely tapping their feet.

The score of Capriccio can currently be found in The Organ Music of John Ireland (ed. Robert Gower), Novello, 2003

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

“Hellish virtuosity meets refined musical grace.”

I am not sure why this album has been entitled Inferno. To be sure, featuring Franz Liszt’s Après une lecture de Dante: Fantasia quasi-Sonata may give the listener a clue. But what is there demonic about some of the other offerings?

Carl Czerny may be best known for his didactic piano studies, yet his fascinating Variations on a Theme by Rode, La Ricordanza, op. 33, expose a more engaging musical talent. Based on a now‑forgotten melody by the equally neglected violinist and composer Pierre Rode (1774-1830), the work unfolds from a poised, understated theme into a sequence of increasingly brilliant variations. Behzod Abduraimov manipulates the music with lots of sparkle revealing a meticulously crafted piece that deserves far wider currency and reminds us how much of Czerny’s vast catalogue remains unexplored.

Walter Beckett in his Master Musicians study of Franz Liszt wrote that Après une lecture de Dante: Fantasia quasi-Sonata “is rather impractical. A great technical expertise is called for, and the player must vitalise the music with [their] own personality, otherwise one is left wondering what the whole thing is about.” Beckett’s insinuation is that the work is a blank canvas requiring the performer to fill in the gaps. Other critics see it as a masterclass in narrative structure and Lisztian thematic transformation - a metamorphosis of a few core motifs including the tritone, or diabolus in musica. I would contend that the score presents a sophisticated, self-contained musical drama.

What is the piece about? Liszt’s Dante Sonata traces a spiritual journey from the horror of Hell towards a vision of Heaven. ‘Infernal’ chromaticism confronts radiant, Beatrice‑like themes, culminating in a hard‑won transfiguration of the soul emerging from despair into an illuminating grace. I followed Abduraimov’s pyrotechnics in the score. It is amazing.

Claude Debussy’s Suite Bergamasque, L.75 (1890) needs little introduction. The third movement, Clair de Lune is a lollipop and long-time favourite with recitalists. The others, Prelude, Menuet and Passepied are less often heard, yet go to make up a stylistically cohesive set that bridges the gap between Baroque form and Impressionist colour.

To pull it off, you cannot just rely on the celebrity of Clair de Lune. The entire Suite needs a light, flexible touch, and finely judged pedalling to create the right atmosphere. As the liner notes suggest, it displays the “secret…of emotion without stress.”  For me, this is a fine account of one of Debussy’s most attractive works.

I enjoyed the Three Movements from Petrushka, a suite transcribed by Igor Stravinsky from his own revolutionary 1911 ballet. It portrays the tragic love triangle of three puppets: Petrushka, the Ballerina, and the Moor - set against the vibrant chaos of a St. Petersburg Shrovetide Fair.

The Movements, titled Danse Russe (Russian Dance), Chez Pétrouchka (Petrushka’s Room), and La Semaine grasse (The Shrovetide Fair), serve as a brilliant distillation of the ballet’s power. In creating this version, Stravinsky wrote that he “did not at all wish to use the piano to represent the orchestra… On the contrary, I did my best to transform it into an essentially pianistic piece, using all the idiomatic resources of the instrument.”

The result is a work of staggering virtuosity that pushes the boundaries of the keyboard's capabilities. Fittingly, this formidable transcription was dedicated to the legendary pianist Artur Rubinstein. It is given a remarkable account here.

The final track is a sympathetic performance of Johannes Brahms’s Intermezzo in B Minor, op. 119, no. 1 (1893). There is nothing of the “Inferno” here; rather, it is a study in late‑Romantic introspection and melancholy. Brahms famously described its pervasive dissonances as "exceedingly sweet," a reminder it requires the most delicate touch. As the opening number in his final set of piano works, it serves as a bittersweet farewell to the instrument.

Behzod Abduraimov, born in Tashkent, Uzbekistan in 1990, first attracted international attention after winning the 2009 London International Piano Competition with Prokofiev’s Piano Concerto No.3. A former student of the pianist and educator Stanislav Ioudenitch at the International Center for Music in Kansas City, he quickly established himself through high‑profile appearances with leading orchestras and a series of well-received recordings.

Inferno as a title for this disc remains a marketing enigma. While the Liszt and Stravinsky tracks certainly bring the heat - one through diabolical drama and the other through sheer, mechanical fire - the rest of the recital  feels more like a scenic detour than a descent into the abyss. Czerny’s elegance and Brahms’s "exceedingly sweet" melancholy have little to do with eternal damnation. However, if the "Inferno" here is meant to represent the performer’s trial by fire, Abduraimov emerges unscathed. He navigates these wildly different emotional landscapes with such poise that even if the thematic thread is thin, the musical journey is undeniably compelling.

Track Listing:
Carl Czerny (1791-1857)
Variations on a Theme by Rode, op.33 (1820s)
Franz Liszt (1811-86)
Après une lecture de Dante: Fantasia quasi-Sonata, Années de pèlerinage, Deuxième Année: Italie, S.161/7 (1846-49)
Claude Debussy (1862-1918)
Suite Bergamasque, L.75 (1890)
Igor Stravinsky (1882-1971)
Three Movements from Petrushka (1911/1921)
Johannes Brahms (1833-97)
4 Klavierstücke, op.119, no.1 Intermezzo (1893)
Behzod Abduraimov (piano)
rec. November 2025, Teldex Studio, Berlin
Alpha Classics Alpha 1219

With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published.

Clifford Curzon: Donald Brook’s Pen-Portrait from ‘Masters of the Keyboard' Part 2

For a year or so, Clifford Curzon returned to the Royal Academy of Music as a professor, but he found that it was almost impossible to fulfil his engagements as a concert pianist and to teach at the same time, and therefore felt obliged to relinquish his appointment. Only very occasionally does he give a private lesson now, yet he is interested in teaching, for he realizes the very important part the teacher plays in our cultural life. A fundamental mistake that many pianists and teachers make, in Curzon’s opinion, is that they become so interested in technique (in its widest sense) that they develop a standardized technique of their own and then proceed to impose it upon everything they play. Every individual type of music demands a different technique: one might almost say that every single phrase has to be considered apart from its neighbour.

To the student pianist, Curzon says, “Work hard at the classics while you’re young, but see that you are not satisfied with a ‘dull’ performance of such works. This applies particularly to the Beethoven sonatas.”

The method Curzon recommends for learning a piece is on much the same lines as Sir Adrian Boult’s system for the preparation of orchestral works. This can be summarized thus:  play the piece through several times regardless of mistakes to gain a thorough general impression of the work: you must be conscious of the work as a whole, its outline, emotion and so forth, before you attend to details. The music should then be taken to pieces, as it were, and every integral part studied and mastered separately. Finally, the piece should be re-constructed and polished as a whole. At the final performance you must still be “in love” with the music: signs of tiredness or staleness can be quickly discerned by the more discriminating listener.

Difficulties of fingering are often under-rated. When he is preparing a work, Clifford Curzon experiments over and over again to find the ideal fingering: the simplest and easiest to play is not always the best arrangement, nor is it always the most effective. His own music bears an enormous number of markings patiently pencilled-in during practice; he never trusts such matters to his memory. In the preparation of concertos, he frequently plays with his radio-gramophone, but thinks that this method can sometimes be overdone, and in any case should never be attempted without the most careful study of the full score.

Contrary to popular supposition, the piano virtuoso of to-day leads a very hard life if he is a conscientious musician. Curzon practises every day, for he finds that as little as three days’ holiday is enough to tell unfavourably upon his work. The skill of the concert pianist is like highly polished metal: a day or two without attention and it begins to get slightly dull; almost imperceptibly, perhaps, but lacking the brilliant freshness of its former state. Virtuosity, Curzon insists, is not as empty as some people imagine: we are afraid of the virtuoso in this country because of our national distaste of “showing off.”

He believes that the music of Chopin is apt to be over-played these days, and in any case, it is too often badly played. Schubert on the other hand is becoming neglected, and so is Liszt, whose music is pathetically misunderstood by millions of musicians to-day. We should always bear in mind the vast numbers of people who have never heard much of the work of these composers.

For the benefit of those who imagine that professional pianists bask in the “lime-light” and enjoy the stare of thousands of eyes, I might add that Clifford Curzon feels no pleasure when he is actually playing: he identifies himself so completely with the composer he is interpreting that the only sense of which he is conscious is one of profound responsibility for the control of a work of art. The pleasure and satisfaction come afterwards, when one is conscious of a job well done; conversely, a performance marred by a blemish of some sort, however tiny, can result in a sleepless night! Accidents do happen sometimes: when he was making his debut in New York, [1] for instance, his glasses fell off just as he reached the climax of the Liszt Funerailles! Curzon is very short-sighted, and he had to complete the work playing upon what seemed to be almost a phantom piano. Fortunately, all went well, but this was a very unpleasant experience on an occasion of such vital importance to a young artist. Commenting on this recital the critic of the New York Times [2] wrote: “Curzon, English pianist, at once established himself as an artist of prime importance. A supreme colourist, with an impeccable virtuoso technique, Mr. Curzon possessed that irresistible combination of power and tenderness, of vitality and subtle delicacy, that belongs only to the exceptionally gifted performer. . . Few pianists of the day have the perfect control of nuance in prismatic softer tints, the invariably singing tone, the velvety fortissimo with strength behind it that gave the delivery of these familiar pieces unusual appeal, aside from the wealth of poetry and imagination that informed the sensitive readings accorded them.”

Clifford Curzon was married in 1931 to Lucille Wallace [3], the American harpsichordist, whom he had met in Schnabel’s class. Their extensive work on the continent made it necessary for them to have a house abroad as well as in London, and they acquired an excellent property in beautiful surroundings near Salzburg. Although Curzon was in England when the Second World War broke out, most of his possessions, including the bulk of his music and the best of his pianos, were in Austria. Eventually a friend succeeded in posting his music to England in 2-lb. packages!

It would be impossible to relate all Curzon’s experiences in wartime, but it is perhaps worth mentioning that he was once asked to play in a certain provincial town hall in England where the local authorities had concealed the name of the German piano in the interests of public morale! He refused to play until the cloth covering the name was removed.

Curzon believes that all the arts are related, and that the musician should be able to appreciate other forms of art if he is to bring his own to perfection. He is keenly interested in painting, and among his proudest possessions are works of some of the greatest modern artists. Poetry also makes a strong appeal to him, and he reads extensively, Henry James and George Eliot for preference. Swimming and driving are his favourite recreations, and he is interested in Yoga.

Notes:

[1] Clifford Curzon made his debut at the Town Hall on 123 West 43rd Street, between Broadway and Sixth Avenue near Times Square, on 26 February 1939.

[2] The American critic Olin Downes writing in the New York Times, 27 February 1939.

[3] Lucille Wallace (1898–1977) was a pioneering American concert harpsichordist who helped revive early classical music in the 20th century. After graduating from Vassar, she studied in Europe under legends like Wanda Landowska. She enjoyed a successful performing career in Britain.

[4] The much repeated, (but not confirmed) anecdote perfectly captures both the fierce patriotism of wartime Britain and Sir Clifford Curzon’s legendary, unyielding perfectionism regarding his instruments.  During the Blitz, the Council for the Encouragement of Music and the Arts (CEMA) sent artists like Curzon, Myra Hess, and Benno Moiseiwitsch to industrial provincial towns to boost factory worker morale. The "German piano" in question was almost certainly a Blüthner or a Bechstein, which were standard high-end fixtures in British civic halls before the war. Local council authorities - terrified that a roaring crowd of patriotic citizens would object to a piece of "enemy machinery" taking centre stage - frequently tried to drape the logos in felt or tape over them. Curzon, who lived and studied in Berlin in the late 1920s under Artur Schnabel, had zero tolerance for politics interfering with acoustic art. He knew that regardless of the geopolitical conflict, those German instruments were unmatched masterpieces of craftsmanship. To him, hiding the manufacturer's name was not patriotism; it was a tacky insult to music itself.

Concluded

Clifford Curzon: Donald Brook’s Pen-Portrait from ‘Masters of the Keyboard' Part I

Donald Brook wrote a series of books presenting attractive short studies or pen-portraits of a wide variety of musicians and authors. Clearly, he had met these people and had a chance to speak to them about their achievements and interests. The present sketch is taken from Masters of the Keyboard, Rockliff, London, 1941.

It should be remembered that Clifford Curzon lived for another 41 years, dying in 1982. Between 1941 and his death, Curzon’s career settled into the pattern that defined his mature reputation. After registering as a conscientious objector during the Second World War, he resumed an active post‑war career, touring widely in Europe and the United States. He became especially associated with Mozart and Schubert, while remaining famously self‑critical, often withholding recordings he judged imperfect. He and his wife Lucille adopted the two sons of soprano Maria Cebotari in 1949. Curzon was appointed CBE in 1953, knighted in 1977, and awarded the Royal Philharmonic Society Gold Medal in 1980. He died in London in 1982 and is buried at Patterdale.

Paderewski gave his “farewell” recital in a concert hall in New York one afternoon in the early spring of 1939. Immediately afterwards, in the same hall, a young English pianist, Clifford Curzon, made his American debut [1] and impressed the critics so favourably that one of them wrote “…one recital marked the twilight of a great career; the other, the dawn of what promises to be another perhaps as great in the world of pianists.” Few musical careers are more interesting to watch than Curzon’s, for he is a magnificent pianist endowed with a poetic temperament and is at the same time a thoroughly sound musician.

He is a Londoner, born in 1907. At the age of twelve he entered the Royal Academy of Music and within a few years distinguished himself by winning what must be almost a record number of scholarships and prizes, including the McFarren Gold Medal. His first professional appearance in London was made at a Queen’s Hall Promenade Concert at the age of sixteen, [2] and the fact that Sir Henry Wood invited him to play during every subsequent Promenade season is sufficient proof of the good impression he made. [3]

Two or three years of general concert work in this country made him realize the need of wider experience, so at the age of nineteen he withdrew from public life and went to Germany to study for two years with Schnabel. [4] While I was having tea with Curzon one afternoon recently, he drew a vivid picture of his student days in Germany, and in particular the sort of classes Schnabel used to hold. He was always in favour of the “class” method of teaching, for he believed that there was plenty a student could learn from the mistakes of his fellows. For four afternoons a week Schnabel would assemble all his pupils in his large music room: an impressive chamber completely lined with books he had never read and, it was said, he never intended even to look at. Apart from chairs, there was little else in it but two fine Bechstein pianos. At one of these Schnabel would sit himself while the student chosen for the afternoon’s ordeal would sit at the other. The pupils came from all over the world - England, America, Russia, France, Greece, and Spain were represented in Curzon’s day, and there were of course people from all parts of Germany and Austria. [5] Whatever his nationality, no student sat at the piano without the sympathy of the onlookers, for Schnabel was not an easy man to please!

The lesson would start soon after two o’clock and would rarely last for less than three-and-a-half hours - some of our twenty-minute piano teachers should make a special note of this. Schnabel had a habit of getting so engrossed in the music that he would completely ignore the clock, and as no student would dare to risk his displeasure by reminding him of the time, the lessons would often go on until seven or eight in the evening. Curzon remembers that on one occasion he was there from two o’clock until ten, but Schnabel could be so interesting that one rarely felt a sense of fatigue. Nobody seemed to mind going without tea.

Schnabel was very watchful of his pupil’s tempo, and any controversial matters on this subject were invariably settled with the reminder: “I swallowed a metronome as a little boy.” He never favoured the extensive use of that device, however.

Fashions and traditional interpretations of the classics made no impression upon him: he would dismiss them with the adage “Tradition is only a collection of bad habits.” And all the pupils, sitting below a portrait of Leschetizky [6] inscribed “with memories of beautiful and difficult hours” would nod appreciatively whether they believed it or not.

After completing his course with Schnabel and shorter periods of study with other distinguished musicians in France and Germany, Clifford Curzon made his debut in Berlin and then toured in Austria, playing in Vienna before his return to this country. Although in recent years he has spent most of his time in England, the years preceding the Second World War were to a great extent given up to establishing himself in various foreign capitals and in America. This perhaps accounts for his rapid rise to eminence, for he was barely out of his twenties when the foreign critics were acclaiming him as “a master of the pianoforte.”

One of his Berlin recitals produced this notice from the critic of the Allgemeine Musikzeitung: “His technical mastery resulting in extraordinary purity of phrasing, harmonically and architecturally, his ‘ purling ’ scales and beautiful eloquence in declaiming ornamentation, together with an ascetically charming concentration on the spiritual content, occupied the foreground in the Beethoven Sonata, while poetry, the most essential quality of all, was shown in the positively enchanting treatment of the Schubert Moments Musicaux, and in the transporting rendering of Liszt’s B-minor Sonata, which has seldom so enslaved me. The young pianist was forced to give repeated encores to a clamouring audience.”

The years Curzon spent in building up a large concerto repertoire have been well rewarded. He is as ready to play Dohnanyi, Bloch, Prokofiev or D’Indy concertos as the better-known works of Beethoven, Brahms, Liszt, Tchaikovsky, or Schumann.

To be continued…

Notes:

[1] Polish pianist Ignace Jan  Paderewski had given a broadcast recital at the Studio 8-H in Radio City, “before a visible audience of a few hundred and a radio audience estimated at 50,000,000, which listened from near and far over the continents and the oceans of the world.”  Clifford Curzon made his debut at the Town Hall on 123 West 43rd Street, between Broadway and Sixth Avenue near Times Square, on 26 February 1939. His recital included Schubert’s Impromptu in E flat major, Funérailles, Petrarch Sonnet, No. 104, and Mephisto Waltz by Liszt, Beethoven variations, op. 35, on a theme from his ballet Prometheus, known as the "Eroica" variations though written before the symphony of that name and finally the Schumann's Sonata in G minor

[2] His first Promenade Concert appearance was on 3 October 1924, playing the Concerto for Three Keyboards in D minor, BWV 1063 under Sir Henry Wood, aged only seventeen.

[3] Brook was a little over-enthusiastic about Curzon’s Promenade Concert career. He did not appear during the years 1927, 1929 and 1930.

[4] Artur Schnabel (1882–1951) was born in Lipnik, then in Austrian Silesia, and trained in Vienna under Theodor Leschetizky, who quickly recognised his exceptional musical intellect. After early success in Berlin, he built a career centred on Beethoven, Schubert, and chamber music, becoming one of the 20th century’s most influential pianists and teachers.

[5] Artur Schnabel taught an unusually distinguished roster of pianists. Documented pupils include Alan Bush, Rudolf Firkušný, Leon Fleisher, Lili Kraus, Noel Mewton‑Wood, Dika Newlin, Eunice Norton, Leonard Shure, Jascha Spivakovsky, Nancy Weir, Konrad Wolff, Carlo Zecchi.

[6] Theodor Leschetizky (1830–1915) was a Polish‑Austrian pianist, pedagogue, and composer whose Vienna studio shaped a generation of major performers. A pupil of Czerny and thus a musical grandson of Beethoven, he combined technical discipline with expressive freedom. His students, including Artur Schnabel, Ignaz Friedman, Benno Moiseiwitsch, and Ignace Jan Paderewski, spread his influence worldwide, securing his reputation as one of history’s most formative piano teachers.

Anton Diabelli: The Amateur’s Best Friend

For over half a century, the music of Austrian composer Anton Diabelli has served as a companion to my pottering at the piano. Never having gone much beyond Grade 5 in my studies, I have found that my well-thumbed copy of his Sonatinas is approachable, relatively playable and satisfying. The Sonatas of Beethoven, Mozart and Haydn are mostly beyond my technique and interpretive competence, yet Diabelli’s music is graciously scaled, melodically clear, and written with a practical understanding of the amateur pianist, offering genuine musical pleasure without overwhelming technical demands. He compresses the character of the late Classical sonata tradition into small, elegant forms.

Diabelli was, at his heart, a teacher who understood the intimate dialogue between the player and the instrument, and keeping his scores close feels like maintaining a connection to the very foundations of classical pedagogy.

Ironically, Diabelli is most famous today for a simple waltz he wrote in 1819. He invited various composers to write a variation on it as a marketing stunt; Ludwig van Beethoven responded with thirty-three monumental variations.

History often remembers the titans of music, while the architects of the industry that supported them fade into the background. Yet, the life of Anton Diabelli (1781–1858) serves as a fascinating bridge between the spiritual world of the priesthood and the burgeoning commercial music scene of 19th-century Vienna. Born in Mattsee, near Salzburg, Diabelli’s early life was defined by a dual devotion to divinity and melody.

Initially destined for the clergy, Diabelli received a rigorous education in Munich and at the convent of Raitenhaslach. His musical interest was nurtured by Michael Haydn, who provided the initial guidance that would later define his career. However, fate intervened in 1803 when the secularisation of Bavarian monasteries forced a change in his life’s path. Diabelli moved to Vienna, where he was warmly introduced to the great Joseph Haydn, signalling his definitive entry into the heart of the European musical world.

In Vienna, Diabelli proved to be a versatile and confident professional. He began as a popular teacher of the piano and guitar, composing a vast array of "meritorious" pieces designed for learners and "Landmessen - masses accessible enough for country churches. While his own compositions were noted for being graceful and practical rather than revolutionary, his true genius lay in his enterprising spirit. In 1818, he entered the publishing world, eventually forming the powerhouse firm Diabelli & Co. in 1824.

His warehouse became a central nervous system for Viennese culture. It was a hub where Carl Czerny was a daily visitor and where the works of Franz Schubert and Johann Strauss were brought to the public. By the time of his death, his firm had laid the groundwork for a catalogue that would eventually exceed 25,000 publications.

Listen to Philip Sear playing Diabelli’s Sonatina in F major, op.168, no.1

Ronald Stevenson: Piano Music, Volume Eight: Greetings to Grieg, Gardiner, and the Graingers

Christopher Guild continues his massive survey of Ronald Stevenson’s piano music with more examples of the works and influence of the Australian composer and pianist Percy Grainger. This builds on Volumes Three and Volume 7 (reviewed here and here). As nearly all these pieces are premiere recordings, I am beholden to the scholarly liner notes for information largely unavailable elsewhere.

The recital opens with an arrangement of the Northern March from Grainger’s orchestral Youthful Suite. This was begun in 1898 and was finally finished in 1945. The March may have all the hallmarks of a North Country or Scottish tune but, seemingly this was a Grainger invention. Stevenson has ‘Scottified’ it by introducing a Scotch Snap in the main theme. The notes suggest that the melody may have occurred to Grainger whilst hiking. I must confess that this long number (8 minutes) often does not seem very march-like: it is thoughtful and melancholy in places.

Edvard Grieg’s Den Bergtekne (The Mountain Thrall) (1878) was devised for baritone, strings and two horns. It was a setting of a Norwegian Folk Ballad. The poem was tragic, being a story of “temptation, deception and treachery” with a man being lured a way from his home by a troll daughter. Unlike Rip Van Winkle or Tam Lin, he never returns. Stevenson replicates Grieg’s unusually austere music in his piano transcription that echoes the dark and intense mood of this original.

The Norse Elegy for Ella Nygaard (1979) was written in memory of the late wife of Percy Grainger’s doctor and friend, Kaare K. Nygaard. The notes explain that Stevenson completed this piece “on the veranda of the Grainger House, White Plains, N.Y., June 15, 1979.” The Elegy uses a cipher based on a notational representation of E-L-L-A , with the ‘L’ being transliterated to ‘A.’ There are allusions to other music: Grieg’s Piano Concerto, the Norse Dirge from Grainger’s Youthful Suite and a theme from Mozart’s Symphony No.40.  The overall impact displays a lugubrious solemnity.

The charming Love at First Sight was initially a tune by Grainger’s wife, Ella Ström (1889-1979). Grainger harmonised it for chorus, publishing this setting in 1946. Ronald Stevenson created the present piano transcription in 1975 as a gift for Ella on her 87th birthday, the following year. He also prepared a simpler arrangement heard here alongside the more expansive concert version.

Stevenson writes that the miniature Cambrian Canto is “in memory of my Welsh Gran who worked as a pit-child truck pusher in the 1860s.” He had a mixed Scots and Welsh heritage which deeply impacted on his creativity. Originally devised in 1965 for pedal harp, it is infused with Welsh musical figures. His widow Marjorie noted its kinship with the traditional air David of the White Rock (Dafydd y Garreg Wen). The adaptation heard on this disc is based on the composer’s 1981 arrangement for clarsach, which seems to transfer well to piano. It is a lovely evocation of the Welsh character and landscape. Tantalisingly, there is another Canto which recalls “memories of a childhood holiday in Wales.” I look forward to hearing this on a subsequent disc.

Eileen O’Malley’s Jig and Air (1975) was penned for an old friend from Stevenson’s Blackburn youth. The liner notes explain that he had acted as répétiteur at the local Ballet Club, where they first met. Eileen O’Malley, daughter of Ernest O’Malley (a former leader of the Hallé Orchestra), remained a lifelong friend, often driving from Blackburn to visit the Stevensons in West Linton, Peeblesshire. During one such visit he learned from her the story of Grace O’Malley (Gráinne Ní Mháille), the formidable 16th‑century Irish “pirate queen” who succeeded her father as chieftain and defended her people against Tudor encroachment. Stevenson casts this short piece in rounded binary form, its vibrant, “swashbuckling” jig yielding to a numinous air that evokes the legendary landscape of Ireland.

During 1950, Grainger provided several “rescorings” of his music for the legendary conductor Leopold Stokowski. One of these was a newly inventive Country Gardens, which featured “interruptions, ‘gauche’ melodic lines elbowing their way into the texture and some wilful wrong notes blowing raspberries at the [original] Morris Dance tune…” Stevenson has provided an equally mischievous transcription – with his tongue well and truly in his cheek.

Sneaky on Sixth: Rag Blues (1987) carries the dedication “For Dr Don Gillespie’s moggy [cat]” with the ‘sixth’ referring to Sixth Avenue in New York. The liner notes tell the full story, but suffice to say, that Gillespie at that time was the Vice-President of C.F. Peters’s music publishers. Completed in a couple of hours, Stevenson uses boogie-woogie and ragtime tropes. Barry Ould (now Director of Music at Bardic Edition and an authority on Percy Grainger), Gillespie again, and American pianist Eubie Blake, were the dedicatees of Ragmaster. Strangely, the score notes that “The A flat and D major sections were written in April 1980; the C minor and C major sections were finished in February 1984.” The title says it all, but there are a few twists and turns that set it apart from Scott Joplin. The final ‘jazzy’ piece is Rigolet Rag (1973), dedicated to Stevenson’s neighbours in West Linton. It was named after their house.

The longest, and most challenging, work on this disc is Percy Grainger’s The Power of Rome and the Christian Heart which was scored for wind band, strings, and organ. Its gestation lasted for many years, beginning in 1918, and finally coming to fruition in 1948 to commemorate the 25th anniversary of the League of Composers

A précis of Grainger’s programme note explains that it is a meditation on the eternal struggle between individual conscience and coercive authority. Prompted by the First World War, especially the sight of unwilling young recruits drilled for killing, he reflects on how war forces people into roles that violate their deepest instincts. It is not programmatic, but an abstract “unfoldment” of emotions born from this conflict: the solitary soul resisting the overwhelming pressure of institutional power, just as the Early Christians once confronted imperial Rome.

Stevenson captures this monumental struggle in his bold and sympathetic arrangement dating from 1981-82. I have not heard the original scoring, but the present version surely complements Grainger’s vivid imagination and provides a well-structured exploration of its tensions and dualities. Christopher Guild is correct when he suggests that it is “a major contribution to solo-piano literature.”

Grainger’s Gardineriana Rhapsody was left unfinished. Formerly begun as a sketch for piano and orchestra in 1947, it was intended as a tribute to fellow composer and friend, H. Balfour Gardiner. What we have on this disc is Stevenson’s realisation of this piece for solo piano although according to the liner notes it remains “a work in progress” with potential for contributions from performers.

The Rhapsody makes use of some themes by Gardiner, including Shenandoah, Jesmond, and a "flowing melody" that Gardiner had gifted to Grainger decades earlier.

Stevenson (1984) has made a major contribution to these fragmentary sketches by adding modulatory links between sections and adapting unpianistic passages for better playability. The overall impact is of a “written-out improvisation” which blends traditional folksong idioms and grand Lisztian technical pyrotechnics. It is not my favourite work on this disc, but I am conscious that it is a considerable achievement linking composition, transcription, and performance. It remains unpublished.

This is yet another outstanding contribution to Ronald Stevenson’s discography. Christopher Guild’s brilliant and sympathetic playing fuses the music of two great composers, innovators, and larger-than-life characters. The recording is excellent and the booklet once again is a masterclass of analysis, history, and description.

Track Listing:
Percy Grainger (1882-1961) arr. Ronald Stevenson (1928-2015)
Youthful Suite: Northern March (1898-99, arr. 1985)
Edvard Grieg (1843-1907) arr. Ronald Stevenson
Den Bergtekne (1878. arr. 1990)
Ronald Stevenson
Norse Elegy for Ella Nygaard (1979)
Ella Grainger (1889-1979) arr. Ronald Stevenson
Love at First Sight (publ. 1946, arr. 1975): Simple Version; Concert Version
Ronald Stevenson
Cambrian Canto (1965, arr. 1981)
Eileen O’Malley’s Jig and Air (1975
Percy Grainger arr. Ronald Stevenson
Country Gardens (Stokowski version; 1908, 1950, arr. c.1990)
Ronald Stevenson
Sneaky on Sixth (1987)
Ragmaster (1980-84)
Rigolet Rag (1973)
Percy Grainger arr. Ronald Stevenson
The Power of Rome and the Christian Heart (1918–48, arr. 1981–82)
Gardineriana Rhapsody (1947, arr. 1984)
Christopher Guild (piano)
rec. 2 April 2023 and 1 July 2025, Wyastone Hall, Monmouthshire, UK.
Toccata Classics TOCC0787

With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published.

Discovering William Alwyn (1905-1985) Part III

Piano Concerto No.2 (1960)

It is unfortunate that this concerto got off to a bad start. It was written specifically for the Dutch pianist, Cor de Groot (1914-93) and was due to be played at the 1960 Henry Wood Promenade Concert series. Sadly, de Groot suffered a stroke, which ended his career. The Concerto was abandoned, the score marked “Cancelled” and was consigned to a cupboard. In the 1990s the composer’s wife, Mary Alwyn (Doreen Carwithen) recovered the holograph, discovered that the slow movement had been cut by William, and a short bridge passage inserted between the outer two movements. She restored the pensive Andante.

Stylistically, it is accessible and melodic. It owes little to contemporary music then being written. In fact, this Concerto is characterised by a deep chromaticism that looks to the big romantic piano concertos of the late 19th/early 20th centuries. Yet, it is not a pastiche. Alwyn has managed to fuse “hustle and bustle” with some intensely thought-out romantic melodies. It is an extrovert work that would have appealed to Prommers more than 60 years ago. To my knowledge, it has never been performed in public. The Piano Concerto was only premiered during the Chandos recording sessions in January 1992/3.

Naïades: Fantasy Sonata for flute and harp (1971)

This is one of the most remarkable works devised for the flute by an Englishman. It was composed in 1971 specifically for the husband-and-wife team of Christopher Hyde-Smith, flute and Marisa Robles, harp.

In the 1973 Aldeburgh Festival Programme Book, William Alwyn gives a perfectly succinct note: "My studio overlooks the river Blyth—tidal waters flanked by a broad expanse of reedy marshes, haunt of shrill seabirds. To wander there on a summer evening, when the reeds are a rustling sheet of gold and the water the colour of the ‘wine-dark’ sea, is to believe again in Pan and Syrinx, sense the presence of Undine, and hear the Naiads sporting in the shallows, hidden from mortal sight by the shrouding reeds." On the other hand, this is not simply a tone poem. Formally, it is a sonata in one movement and works equally well as absolute music. Yet the evocation of Greek mythology, will bring pleasure to many listeners, who are lucky enough to appreciate the allusions.

There is a definite ‘Francophile’ mood to Naïades. Alwyn has composed a ‘Greek pastoral’ seen through French eyes, with Ravel’s and with Poulenc’s shadow in the background. The imagery of this watery score has been relocated from the springs of Mount Helicon to the Marshlands of Suffolk.

Naïades was premiered at the 1971 Bath Festival by the dedicatees. It was later recorded by them for the Lyrita label.

Miss Julie (1972-6)

The Daily Telegraph critic (18 July 1977 p.7) reporting on the first broadcast performance (16 July 1977) of Alywn’s opera Miss Julie, considered that it was “melancholy to contemplate the neglect of such an expert and winning composer because of the conservative cast of his music.” Furthermore, “the atmosphere…of forbidden love between mistress and servant wrapped in the warmth of midsummer night, ominous, sensual, obsessive, is finely captured and sustained by music which could evince a heady Tristanesque sexuality, while defining the lovers’ social and character differences.”

William Alwyn’s first thoughts about Miss Julie date back to the 1930s. Sketches were made in the 1950s, but it was eventually finished between 1973 and 1976. The opera is based on the play by the Swedish author and playwright August Strindberg (1849-1912). The libretto is by the composer. Andrew Knowles (CD Liner Notes Naxos 8.570705) gives an excellent précis of the opera, which deserves quotation: it concerns “the spoilt, rich daughter of a Count who falls under the spell of the manservant Jean. The latter plays with Miss Julie’s affections and seduces her, then rejects her and finally tempts her into suicide as the only way of escape from her shame.” The opera is characterised by lush, almost filmic scoring, and perfectly singable vocal lines. Two diverse composers who inspire this opera are Alban Berg and Giacomo Puccini.

For listeners who may not wish to indulge in two hours of opera, the Suite from Miss Julie presents a good conspectus of the drama, romance, and intimacy of the score. It was arranged by Philip Lane in 2000.

It seems ironic that Miss Julie was not given a full professional staged performance in the United Kingdom until 1997, at that year’s Norwich and Norfolk Festival.

String Quartet No. 3 (1984)

All through his life Alwyn wrote for this medium. The earliest example was the String Quartet No.0 dating from 1920. This flow of chamber works continued until 1936, when No.13 was completed. The scores to some of these are now missing. As noted above, he did not destroy all his “early horrors.” In recent years, most of the surviving quartets have been revived, and released on CD. They have received considerable praise from the musical press.

In 1953, Alwyn finished his first “official” String Quartet. This was followed in 1975 by the evocatively named Second Quartet, ‘Spring Waters.’ His last completed major work was his String Quartet No.3 published in 1984. It was dedicated to Alwyn’s friend, the diplomat, author and translator, Sir Cecil Parrott who had died on 23 June 1984. Andrew Knowles (CD Liner Notes 8.570560) explains that its genesis was sparked by the “recording sessions for the first string quartets by the Quartet of London at Snape Maltings in 1982.” Alwyn remarked: “Again I was filled with the desire to compose yet one more work for this most perfect of mediums.”

The mood of the entire Quartet is autumnal. The composer (CD Liner Notes, Chan 8440) himself noted the powerful opening dominated by “fortissimo rhythmic chords and a leaping melody the on the cello.” This is contrasted with “a gently brooding second subject.” The second movement is elegiac in mood, as befits the work’s ascription. The intensity of this is relieved by a dance-like middle section. The progress of much of the piece is more concerned with texture than with dialogue. This String Quartet makes a perfect swansong, summed up in the literary tag for this work. Alwyn cites words by Joy Finzi, “All that is about me/a radiance – a sigh/Time now gathers my winding sheet/of syllable and song.”

Alwyn on Record

The earliest record of music by William Alwyn would seem to be Two Folk Tunes for cello and piano issued on a 78rpm record, c.1940. This was presented in an arrangement for the violist Watson Forbes and the harpist Maria Korchinska. The first LP devoted to Alwyn’s music was a recital of piano works played by Sheila Randall. This was issued on the legendary Lyrita label in 1960.

It was the 1970s that saw a huge impetus given to William Alwyn’s music. Once again, Lyrita was in the vanguard. The entire cycle of five symphonies was released between 1972 and 1977. In each case, the London Philharmonic Orchestra was conducted by the composer. These four LPs also included the tone-poem The Magic Island and the Sinfonietta for Strings. Later releases from Lyrita featured the premiere recordings of the opera Miss Julie, several concerted works, and an album of chamber music.

Richard Hickox and the London Symphony Orchestra began a major cycle of Alwyn’s orchestral works for the Chandos Record label in 1992. This included all the symphonies, the two piano concertos, the violin concerto, and the three Concerto Grosso. A survey of Alwyn’s film scores was begun in 1993, eventually running to four volumes. The latest (the fourth) was issued in 2016.

In 2005, David Lloyd-Jones and the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra began yet another cycle of the symphonies for the Naxos label. These included several of the early orchestral works once believed to have been lost. Other record companies contributing to Alwyn’s catalogue include SOMM and Dutton Epoch. There are also many recordings in the BBC and the British Library Sound Archives.

At the present time (June 2026) the vast majority of William Alywn’s ‘art’ music has been released on LP, CD or download. This includes many early pieces that were once thought to be destroyed. The latest project has been the Lyrita/SOMM recordings of the early String Quartets. There are also a handful of historical recordings available, including John Barbirolli conducting the Hallé, and the BBC Symphony Orchestra.

Conclusion

William Alwyn’s achievement is wide ranging. Often belittled as a “film music” composer, the reality is more complex. Motion pictures and documentaries do feature extensively in his catalogue. The character of this genre does permeate some of his concert repertoire. Yet, his style is also eclectic. The listener will find Alwyn being romantic, neo-classical, practicing his own brand of twelve-tone music, with nods to Baroque and modernist idioms. He tackled most genres from opera to symphonies, concertos to song-cycles and oratorios to chamber works. William Alwyn’s style is accessible, sometimes challenging, never lacking in interest, and always showing superlative craftsmanship.

Concluded.


This essay was first printed in the 2021 edition of Spirited, the Journal of the English Music Festival.

Discovering William Alwyn (1905-1985) Part II

I have selected nine works that seem to me to present a rounded picture of William Alwyn’s achievement. They are not necessarily his “greatest hits.”

Five Preludes (1927)

This was Alwyn’s first major concert success. These five miniatures last for less than eight minutes, with no time for structural development. The score was completed during March 1927, in time for their premiere on 22 September at the Queen’s Hall, under the baton of Sir Henry Wood. He wrote “My work had a mixed reception, but Sir Henry approved of it, he had faith in me and that was all that really mattered.” (William Alwyn, Winged Chariot, 1983, p.6)

The five short pieces cram a wide range of emotion into a brief duration. The slightly discordant Allegretto includes a very brief, but quite powerful climax. The second Prelude, Andante, is a wistful little pastoral, with an oboe melody supported by a beautiful commentary from muted French horns and strings. Next, a Ravelian, or is it Richard Straussian, Tempo di Valse, with a swirling momentum. The Andante con moto’s mood varies from a tranquil melancholy to a touching serenade, that nods towards John Ireland. Finally, the Allegro molto pulls out all the stops. There are hints of Chinoiserie here with the characteristic use of the xylophone. Tubas and trumpets supply colour. The Five Preludes end suddenly with no warning.

The unsigned reviewer for The Times (23 September 1927, p.8) summed up well: “[These Five Preludes] are brief and light, relying more upon orchestral colour than in thematic interest for their appeal.” The critic concluded by noting that “the harmonies are sometimes wilful, and Mr. Alwyn seems to belong to what may be called the Russian Ballet school.” This refers to some Stravinskian allusions. However, Maurice Ravel is also a clear influence. The importance of this early work is recognising that he had already developed a profound understanding of the orchestra, which would serve him so well on the silver screen and in the concert hall.

The Five Preludes were consigned to a drawer and forgotten about until their premiere recording was released on the Naxos label in 2008.

Divertimento for solo flute (1939-40)

The Divertimento for solo flute is included in this suggested listening plan, simply because it was the earliest pieces that William Alwyn acknowledged after repudiating his earlier compositions. Another example was the Rhapsody for piano quartet (1939). It was these works that gave him the self-confidence to relaunch his career as a composer. Alwyn wrote the Divertimento during 1939-40. The four movements are: an Introduction and Fughetta, Variations on a Ground, a Gavotte and Musette and a Finale alla Gigue. Much of it is ‘pastoral’ - in a Theocritan sense - that rises above the purely technical. Each of the four movements exploits a feature of flute playing, including pseudo-part writing, and double-stopping. This virtuosic music is characterised by tightly integrated thematic development. Furthermore, it is often regarded as his first dalliance with neo-classicism. Unbeknown to him, the Divertimento was premiered to great acclaim by René Le Roy during the 1941 International Society of Contemporary Music Festival in New York. It had an earlier private performance at the R.A.M.

It is fortunate for Alwyn enthusiasts that he did not destroy his earlier works. It is strange to think that many of his so-called juvenilia has more interest to the present-day listener than the Divertimento for solo flute.

The Card (1952)

In 1952, William Alwyn wrote the film score for The Card. This was a humorous dramatization of a novel by the Staffordshire author Arnold Bennett (1867-1931). It starred Alec Guinness, Glynis Johns, Valerie Hobson and a young Petula Clark. It is not plot spoiling to reveal that this story is of the rise and rise variety. Denry Machin (Guinness) has not a penny in the world, but uses his ingenuity to gain success in politics, romance, and fortune. In 2001, Philip Lane made a Suite of the music to The Card. It is presented in five movements. First up is a cheery theme that dominates the proceedings. It is whistled first, then taken up by the woodwind. Of especial charm is the pastiche “Grand Waltz” and a sparkling “Polka,” heard at the Countess of Chell’s (Hobson) Ball. Equally captivating is the romantic theme heard when Denry and Nellie (Clark) are courting. There is a typical example of a “light music” travelogue with the coach ride to the fictional Potteries town of Bursley. Finally, the opening jaunty theme is heard once again in the sprightly finale. It is a splendid reworking for the concert hall: it highlights one of Alwyn’s most attractive scores.

Symphonic Prelude: The Magic Island (1952)

This tone poem combines many aspects of William Alwyn’s success. Here there are nods to film music, romanticism, and most vividly, impressionism. It is hardly surprising to discover that it evokes Prospero’s Island from Shakespeare’s The Tempest: it was one of the composer’s favourite plays. The score is headed with Caliban’s well-known lines:

…the Isle is full of noises,

Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight and hurt not:

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments

Will hum about mine ears; and sometimes voices,

That if I then had wak’d after long sleep,

Will make me sleep again, and then in dreaming,

The clouds methought would open, and show riches

Ready to drop upon me, that when I wak’d

I cried to dream again.”

This text gives the programme for The Magic Island. It is written in several sections with the opening creating a sense of profound mystery and magic. It builds up into a climax before the final part concludes with an “imperceptible whisper.”

The Magic Island has been criticised as being derivative of Arnold Bax and Claude Debussy. And more damningly that “the ultimate effect is aimless, as if the composer had arbitrarily strung together bits of unused film music.” (Stephen Francis Vasta MusicWeb International 12 May 2012). Adrian Wright, in his study of Alwyn, has raised the possibility that he may have thought up the title some hours or days after he had completed the score. His inspiration for the title might have come simply from a perusal of the Collected Plays of Shakespeare.

Whatever the truth, the sheer artistry of the scoring sets it apart. The Magic Island is a “full blown essay in luxurious impressionism…” Alwyn has created a score that is full of mystery and “untold secrets.” In this he has provided a perfect evocation of Prospero’s enchanted island.

The Magic Island was commissioned by Sir John Barbirolli and was premiered by the Hallé Orchestra on 25 March 1953.

Symphony No.3 (1955-56)

Fellow composer John Ireland informed Alwyn by letter (quoted CD Liner Notes CHAN 9187) that “Your [Third] Symphony is the finest British Symphony since the Elgar 2.” Possibly hyperbole, but nonetheless encouraging. William Alwyn’s Symphony No.3 had been commissioned in 1954 by the BBC. It was dedicated to Richard Howgill, then Controller of Music.

Of excellent value to historians is Ariel to Miranda, a day-to-day diary written by the composer. Here he kept a record of the Symphony’s progress. The listener must not be put off by learning that it is a serial work. Notwithstanding these underlying principles, it bears no resemblance to contemporary music by serial composers both in the United Kingdom and in Europe. Alwyn has used the “method” lightly. Quoting Alwyn again (CD Liner Notes 8.557648): “the thematic ideas on which the whole symphony is based are stated clearly and I hope concisely in the first few pages.” The interesting part is the development of these themes. This is what makes it an outstanding example of the genre. The overall mood is of a “stormy and passionate work, strongly rhythmic in the outer movements but finding tranquillity and repose in the middle movement and closing pages...”

Stylistically, this Symphony has several influences. Holst’s Planets is never too remote. Ralph Vaughan Willams’s Fourth and Fifth Symphonies, and Walton’s First are exemplars. Yet, Alwyn brings his own individuality to the work. It would be easy to describe it as “filmic.” On the other hand, it is not a sequence of disconnected episodes. Formally it is well-crafted, with a tight sense of unity and overall design.

It may be disingenuous to describe William Alwyn’s Symphony No.3 as his “sea symphony”, but to my ear, this is a good summation. It was partially conceived in Cowes on the Isle of Wight. It is not being too imaginative to hear echoes of the Solent, both calm and stormy. And then he was passing through a time of unsettled personal relationships…

To be concluded…

This essay was first printed in the 2021 edition of Spirited, the Journal of the English Music Festival.