Sir William Walton: Castaway on Desert Island Discs, 1965

On 19 July 1965, the English composer William Walton was the guest on Roy Plomley’s long-running radio programme, Desert Island Discs. He would have been 63 years old at the time. Although not producing quite as much as in earlier years, he had recently heard the premiere of his Variations on a Theme by Hindemith (1963), the revised version of the opera Troilus and Cressida (1954, 1963) and just a few weeks earlier, his setting of W.H. Auden’s ‘Anthem for the Feast of any Apostle,’ The Twelve for mixed chorus and organ. At the time, he was living in La Mortella, Forio d’Ischia with his wife, Susana.

Walton’s first selection was Igor Stravinsky’s ballet Pulcinella played by the Cleveland Orchestra, under the composer’s baton. This witty neoclassical ballet transforms supposed Pergolesi originals into bright, rhythmically fresh music for commedia dell’arte characters. Stravinsky’s Pulcinella (1920) cast a long shadow over the musical landscape Walton entered in the early 1920s, its bright neoclassical reinvention of eighteenth‑century sources setting the tone for a new aesthetic of clarity, wit, and rhythmic edge. Although Walton never imitated Stravinsky, his early works - Portsmouth Point, Façade, the Sinfonia Concertante - breathe the same air: wiry, brilliant orchestration, a playful modernisation of older dance and march idioms, and a theatrical, slightly satirical sparkle. Pulcinella helped define the climate in which Walton’s distinctive, more English voice first took shape.

The second selection was Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 19 in F major (K.459). Walton probably warmed to this work because of its bright, agile keyboard writing, its poised yet spirited orchestral dialogue - especially the deft interplay with the winds - and its classical clarity all align with qualities he prized in his own music; the concerto’s mixture of elegance, rhythmic lift and lightly theatrical wit speaks directly to Walton’s taste for brilliance and economy, making K.459 the kind of Mozart he would have esteemed instinctively. The performance was by Rudolf Serkin ad the Columbia Symphony Orchestra under George Szell.

Next up was Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No.29 in B flat major, performed by Louis Kentner. Walton likely viewed this Hammerklavier Sonata with a mix of reverence and recognition. Its explosive rhythms, massive structure, and sheer economy of notes mirror his own musical values: tight control, brilliance without fluff, and an unyielding logic. The sonata's mix of grandeur and physical energy matches Walton’s appetite for lean, dramatic music. It is exactly the kind of Beethoven that would have simultaneously terrified and thrilled him. Interestingly, Kentner, along with Yehudi Menuhin, had given the premiere performance (the original version) of Walton’s Sonata for violin and piano, on 30 September 1949.

An unusual choice was Henze’s Five Neapolitan Songs (Fünf neapolitanische Lieder) dating from 1956. This is a 17-minute cycle for baritone and chamber orchestra setting anonymous 17th century Neapolitan poems. The texts provide an eclectic mix of earthy humour, tenderness, and fatalism. Henze imbues the music with his characteristic blend of lyricism, intense colour, and lightly modernist edge. Listening to these settings suggests William Walton undoubtedly enjoyed these songs for their theatrical flair, clear‑cut orchestral colour, and refined craftsmanship - qualities that match his own tastes. The soloist in this record was Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau, with the Berlin Philharmonic under Richard Kraus.

The fifth selection was Joan Sutherland’s brilliant rendition of ‘Come per me sereno’ from Bellini's La Sonnambula. Here, Amina’s wedding day in a Swiss village unravels when she is discovered sleepwalking into the Count’s room, provoking Elvino’s jealousy. Only the villagers’ definitive proof of her innocence restores trust, allowing the opera to close in reconciliation and radiant relief.

For his next selection, William Walton chose Debussy’s Six épigraphes antiques, as subtly orchestrated by Ernest Ansermet. This remarkable work was originally drawn from incidental music Debussy wrote in 1901 for Pierre Louÿs’s Chansons de Bilitis, before being reimagined by the composer for piano duet in 1914. Ansermet’s orchestration, completed in 1939, restores the music to its original theatrical scale while maintaining its intimate charm. Across all six movements, Ansermet treats Debussy’s modal harmonies and graceful melodies with a light, almost ritualistic touch. The scoring favours luminous textures - muted strings, delicate woodwind solos, and harp arabesques - that suggest the half-imagined antiquity Debussy loved to conjure. 

What emerges is not a symphonic transformation but a sensitive illumination. Ansermet understands that these pieces thrive on suggestion rather than statement. His orchestral palette allows Debussy’s evocations of ancient Greece - filtered through Symbolist imagination rather than archaeology - to shimmer with renewed colour, retaining their enigmatic, dreamlike poise.

I was surprised by Walton’s next selection, Schoenberg’s Variations for Orchestra, op. 31 (1926–28). Not only in his choice of this work, but the fact that it was the “one work he would choose to keep if the other seven were to be lost in the surf or melted in the sun.”

These Variations were the first large‑scale orchestral work to employ the twelve‑tone method, marking a decisive moment in Schoenberg’s stylistic development. Premiered in Berlin in December 1928 under Wilhelm Furtwängler, it unsurprisingly provoked a scandalised reception, reflecting the polarised musical climate of the Weimar Republic. The score unfolds in an Introduction, a clearly stated theme, nine sharply characterised variations, and a Finale, all derived from a single series or tone row and its permutations. Its orchestration is unusually rich - four of each woodwind, expanded percussion including flexatone, harp, celeste, mandolin, and full strings - allowing Schoenberg to explore a kaleidoscope of colours. The work also incorporates the BACH motif, a gesture of historical homage within its rigorously modern idiom.

Walton would have admired the op. 31 for its taut construction, its rhythmic energy, and its brilliant orchestration. Schoenberg’s variations show a fierce, almost classical discipline beneath their modernist surface – of lucid argument, and momentum that aligns with Walton’s own taste for bold and concentrated music.

Finally, Walton turned to his own catalogue for his Symphony No. 2. Commissioned by the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Society to celebrate the 750th anniversary of the city’s charter, the work was composed fitfully between 1957 and 1960 from his home in Ischia. It belongs to his mature, late-period style, arriving some 25 years after his extraordinarily successful but tragic First Symphony as a complete contrast. Whereas the First was expansive and hard-edged, the Second is terse, polished, and emotionally restrained.

John Pritchard conducted the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra at the premiere during the Edinburgh Festival on September 2, 1960. Unsurprisingly, critical evaluation was mixed; many contemporary reviewers regarded it as old-fashioned, conservative, and stuck in the past because it clung to a tonal basis. Today, the symphony can finally take its rightful place as a brilliantly crafted, unjustly overlooked landmark of 20th-century British music.

For his luxury item, a small sculpture was a novel choice. One wonders what Walton was imagining. Would it have been a piece by Henry Moore or Barbara Hepworth or the pioneer of Pop Art, Eduardo Paolozzi?

His book choice was equally distinct. James Frazer’s The Golden Bough is a massive comparative study of myth, ritual, and religion, arguing that human cultures evolve from magic to religion to science. Ranging across global folklore, it explores fertility rites, sacred kingship, and sacrificial traditions, profoundly shaping modern anthropology, psychology, and literary imagination. It has been issued in various editions, including one-volume abridgements. I assume Walton would have wanted the 12-volume third edition published between 1906 and 1915 to pass away many a lonely day.

Seventeen years later, William Walton would return to the BBC studios on 27 March 1982 for a second edition of Desert Island Discs.

Charles Hubert Hastings Parry : Piano Music Volume 2

This is the second instalment of Christopher Howell’s survey of Charles Hubert Hastings Parry’s piano music. The first was reviewed here, and here.

Sonnets and Songs Without Words: Book 2 was composed over an eight-year period, with it being completed and published in 1875. The liner notes explain that this collection had its roots in the days when Parry was courting Maude Herbert. They were to marry in 1872 although the union was to remain problematic for many years. At one time, Parry was “ordered off” by Maude’s mother, leading perhaps to the first number, the “stoical” Resignation. Milton’s L’Allegro and Il Penseroso set two contrasting moods. L’Allegro delights in daylight, music, and lively company, while Il Penseroso turns inward to night, study, and quiet reflection. Together they sketch a life balanced between outward joy and inward thought. Parry provides a muted commentary on these two poems in the second and third eponymous Songs. Overall, this is an introverted collection of pieces that, despite their nod to Mendelssohn, are more inward and personal than salon‑bound, showing a young composer testing emotion, rather than virtuoso display. This collection is a “first recording.”

Parry was a past master at writing Suites that nod to Baroque exemplars. One need only think of the early Suite de pièces, the Partita in D minor and the Lady Radnor’s Suite, with the English Suite between them, to recognise this expertise.

A near-contemporary review by Stanley Bayliss of the Hands Across the Centuries: Suite (pub. 1918) suggested that compared to the Shulbrede Tunes it failed. The critic felt that although they “attract the attention,” they show signs of hurriedness. Yet this contradicts Charles L Graves’s contention that here “he happily justified the title by a dexterous accommodation of eighteenth-century conventions to modern idiom.” He quotes Parry’s friend, disciple, and assistant Emily Daymond (and the Suite’s inspiration and dedicatee) as stating that “Over and over again, he would rewrite something because ‘it must be the very best I can do.’”  

The liner notes suggest that despite the historical background to the Suite, Parry has expressed “unease and emotional isolation” from a difficult marriage to Maude. Howell also suggests a kindred spirit with “the sea and weathers experienced on Parry’s beloved yacht, The Wanderer.” Whether I fully agree with this contention, there is little doubt that the sea is present in the opening Prelude (which also nods to a Bach fantasia) and in the “lapping wavelets” of the “capricious” Courante. Parry scholar Jeremy Dibble has noted the “Brahms-tinged Passionate Allemande and the “expressive” Quasi Sarabande which was played at the composer’s funeral. This seriousness is dismissed by the cheerful Gavotte and Musette and the Quasi Minuetto before all is blown away by the Lisztian Whirling Jig. Surely this final number would make a splendid encore for any recital of British music.

The main event on this disc is a distinctive performance of Hubert Parry’s Piano Sonata No.2 in A major, completed in 1878. I first heard it played by Anthony Goldstone (Albany Records TROY 132, 1994) on the composer’s Hagspiel grand piano at Shulbrede Priory in Sussex. Despite the historical significance of this recording, I was unmoved by the tone and balance of the instrument. During 2023, I appraised Richard Deering’s account of both sonatas on the Heritage Records HTGCD140-41 (reviewed here) and there discovered a reading that I could do business with. I am equally impressed with Howell’s account here.

The liner notes remind the listener that although the Second Sonata was finished before the First, Parry wished it to be known as the second, as it seemed to be a “logical development from the less ambitious first.” Confusing! The work was dedicated to his “close friend” Tora Gordon on the engagement to Victor Marshall. Jeremy Dibble notes that Parry’s affection for Tora was “deep but necessarily restrained.” The sonata was a “perfect outlet for his sense of loneliness” from his “increasingly unresponsive” wife, Maude.

The opening movement adopts a modified sonata design, effectively a rhapsodic play on two contrasted themes, one of which may conjure up “a vision of Tora.” The Adagio con sentimento that follows may glance toward the early Romantics, yet its harmonic language is unmistakably Wagnerian. Tender and reflective, it unfolds in a sophisticated binary structure, each half containing two distinct ideas. The Scherzo dances along in a lively 6/8 with a few unexpected twists. The finale, an Allegretto, is a deftly crafted rondo, its genial refrain framing two contrasting episodes and propelled by a succession of striking modulations; towards the close, it nods back to both the first movement and the Adagio. Listeners who cherish Brahms, Schumann and Schubert will find much to enjoy in this warm‑hearted, affectionate sonata which is in no way a pastiche or parody.

This recital of Parry’s piano repertoire is well‑judged, sympathetic and alert to every shift of mood and character. Howell beautifully captures these diverse historical threads - from Baroque frameworks to high-Romanticism - synthesising them to highlight an important, if not fully recognised, voice. It is supported by an outstanding recording.

I am indebted to Christopher Howell’s outstanding liner notes in preparing this review; they are engaging, informative, and refreshingly untechnical. A résumé of the soloist and his discography is also provided. The disc’s cover features a contemporary print of the Royal College of Music on Prince Consort Road.

There is ample scope for a third volume to round off this absorbing survey of Parry’s published piano music. One can only hope it appears before long, bringing to completion what has already proved a fascinating exploration of a too‑often overlooked corner of his catalogue.

Track Listing:
Charles Hubert Hastings Parry (1848-1918)
Sonata in A major (1876-77, pub.1878)
Sonnets and Songs Without Words: Book 2 (1867-75, pub.1875)
Hands Across the Centuries: Suite (pub. 1918)
Christopher Howell (piano)
rec. 2023, Studio of Griffa e Figli, Milan, Italy
Da Vinci Classics C01138

 

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.

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

Constant Lambert’s writing about music remains one of the sharpest, wittiest, and most penetrating bodies of criticism produced by any British composer of the twentieth century. In Music Ho! (1934), his landmark survey of modern culture, he combines satire, polemic, and genuine analytical insight to argue that contemporary music had lost touch with vitality, popular culture, and emotional directness. Plus ça change! Lambert’s prose is urbane, ironic, and steeped in wide reading, yet capable of sudden, devastating clarity. He champions jazz and music-hall idioms as antidotes to what he saw as academic sterility, and he writes with equal brilliance on Stravinsky, Elgar, and the Ballets Russes. His criticism is never neutral; it is shaped by a composer’s ear, a conductor’s practical experience, and a moralist’s concern for artistic honesty. Even when one disagrees with him, Lambert’s arguments illuminate the musical landscape with uncommon style and intellectual bite.

In 1928, Lambert contributed a substantial survey of William Walton’s music to The Dominant, the short‑lived yet spirited British music magazine that ran from November 1927 to November 1929. Notable for its lively criticism and commitment to contemporary debate, The Dominant championed new British composers, challenged entrenched institutions, and offered sharp, often provocative commentary - an ideal forum for Lambert’s incisive advocacy of Walton. The present essay appeared in Volume 1. No.4 February 1928 p.16-19:

"Although the overture Portsmouth Point [1] is the first composition by which William Walton became known to the general public, it is by no means his first work on an ambitious scale.

Amongst the many interesting works that preceded it we may mention the early piano quartet, the atonal string quartet, the rhapsodical toccata for violin and pianoforte and the Fantasia Concertante for two pianos, jazz band, and orchestra. [2]

Though none of these works is lacking either in invention or technical proficiency, the composer has rightly chosen not to produce or revive them, for, interesting though they may be to a student of his work, they are too obviously the product of one particular influence, be it Schoenberg or Gershwin, not to come as a disappointment after the striking originality and freshness of Portsmouth Point.

This work (which takes its title from an amusing drawing by Rowlandson) was not only the most original and successful composition that Walton had yet produced but the first in which he struck a definitely English note.

I do not mean by this that he has in any way succumbed to the fabricated and pseudo-archaic nationalism that has proved such a blind alley to nine out of ten British composers, but that one finds in this work that spirit of clarity and decision combined with a robust good humour that has characterized so much of our art, whether in literature or painting. Eclecticism is the bugbear of those spirits who are too weak to stand without the help of some narrowly exclusive national or political formula, but there is no doubt that it is to the eclectic quality of his earlier work that Walton owes his capacity for producing works that are at the same time English and international in their appeal -  the first works, perhaps, since Boyce and Dibdin [3] to which this description may rightly be applied.

Although Portsmouth Point is only a few minutes long, it is one of the most sustained efforts I know of in modern music, for the form is concision itself and is a complete absence of the meaningless melodic and rhythmic repetitions that mar so much contemporary Work. It is possible, no doubt, to divide the work into exposition, development, etc., but the impression we receive is of one headlong section, an effect in no way weakened by the profusion of thematic material.

Melodically speaking, the work derives to a certain extent from traditional nautical tunes and from the more breezy English eighteenth century composers. It is interesting to note a similarity in certain passages to the symphonies of Boyce, although at the time the composer was completely ignorant of these works. Another melodic influence has been the 'sardanas' of Catalonia. These folk dances have nothing in common with the rest of Spanish music and are distinguished by their clear-cut form and vigorous melodic line; the tunes are often curiously English in atmosphere and therefore their Influence has in no way caused an inconsistency of style in Walton's music. (With the possible exception of Deodat de Sévérac [4] I know of no other composer who has been swayed by this delightful popular tradition.) From the harmonic point of view the work raises no problems. The style is broadly diatonic with a free use of diatonic discords but with nothing approaching either atonality or polytonality; we are presented with neither cliches nor innovations.

From the rhythmic point of view the work is fascinating; unlike so many modern works, it is no rhythmic tour de force that is incapable of development, but an experiment that points the way to a really intelligent use of jazz rhythms.

It has been unfortunate that those composers who have sought inspiration in jazz have not only made use of its exhilarating. rhythmic qualities but have incorporated also the more obvious harmonic cliches, the circumscribed form and the flat and uninspired melodic line that not even the utmost use of arabesque can save from deadness. Walton was guilty of this himself in the Fantasia Concertante, but in Portsmouth Point, though he has introduced the most violent syncopations of rhythm, he has applied them to his own melodic and harmonic basis and has steered clear of the monotonous foursquare rhythm that is the depressing though essential feature of modern dance music.

Like many of his works, Portsmouth Point has undergone several revisions - the revision, as usual, being on the side of simplicity and brevity. The final scoring (played at the Promenade Concerts this year) is a great improvement on the first version (played as an interlude at the Russian Ballet) [5] which was altogether too detailed and elaborate for so complex a work. It should be an axiom, surely, that the more complicated the essential texture of a work, the simpler should be its method of presentation. The ear cannot humanly be expected to follow the combined complexity and eccentricity of harmony, melody, counterpoint, and orchestration that is to be found in the stage works of Schoenberg, for example.

Notes:

[1] Portsmouth Point was written between Spring and November 1925 and was dedicated to the soldier‑poet, Siegfried Sassoon. It was premiered in Zürich, Tonhalle, 22 June 1926 (4th ISCM Festival) with the Tonhalle Orchestra, conducted by Volkmar Andreae. The first British performance took place at His Majesty’s Theatre on 28 June 1926, heard as an orchestral interlude in a ballet evening, played by the Diaghilev Ballets Russes’ resident ensemble under Eugene Goossens. Walton’s Portsmouth Point Overture crackles with swaggering rhythms, bustling energy, and bright orchestral colour, capturing Rowlandson’s boisterous harbour scene in a whirlwind of syncopation, high spirits, and youthful bravado.

[2] Lambert refers to Walton’s Fantasia Concertante for two pianos, jazz band, and orchestra. This work, composed between 1923 and 1924 has been lost. It is assumed that Walton imagined it would be played at one of Debroy Somer’s Savoy Orpheans concerts at the Queen’s Hall. At the time, Walton was experimenting with jazz‑inflected orchestral writing, and Somers’s band was one of the few London ensembles capable of performing such a hybrid score.

[3] William Boyce (1711–1779) was an English composer and organist whose church music, symphonies and theatrical scores made him a central figure in Georgian musical life. As Master of the King’s Musick, he helped codify the English choral tradition and preserved earlier repertoire through his influential Cathedral Music. Charles Dibdin (1745–1814) was a singer, actor, dramatist and prolific songwriter, recalled for his nautical ballads that shaped Britain’s maritime imagination. His one‑man entertainments, operas and theatre ventures made him a defining voice of late‑eighteenth‑century popular culture, influencing public morale during the Napoleonic era.

[4] Déodat de Sévérac (1872–1921) was a French composer whose music is inseparable from the landscapes and languages of southern France. He drew deeply on Occitan (Romance language of Southern France) and Catalan folk song, absorbing their melodic contours, dance rhythms, and vocal inflections into a very personal Impressionist‑tinged style.

[5] During the 1926 Diaghilev season at His Majesty’s Theatre, orchestral interludes were first used to bridge ballet scenes and provide audiences with glimpses of contemporary concert music. Conducted by Eugene Goossens, the resident orchestra performed a sequence of short works that reflected Diaghilev’s eclectic taste. These interludes offered a momentary shift from the stage to the pit, highlighting modern British and European composers while maintaining the evening’s theatrical momentum. Heard in this context, the music functioned both as atmospheric punctuation and as a showcase for the orchestra’s virtuosity during one of the Ballets Russes’ final London seasons. The list of composers is considerable, and included music by Lord Berners, Claude Debussy, Arthur Bliss, and Georges Bizet.

To be continued

Handel's The Harmonious Blacksmith

I found this little description of Handel’s delightful keyboard piece The Harmonious Blacksmith in an old book: Stories of Standard Teaching Pieces, by a certain Edward Baxter Perry. It was published in 1910 by Theo Presser Co. 1712 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia.

Edward Baxter Perry was an established American pianist‑lecturer whose books helped shape early‑20th‑century musical education in the United States. Blind from childhood, he had built a career not only as a performer but as a gifted communicator, someone who could make the European piano repertoire feel vivid and accessible to amateurs. By this point he was best known for his Descriptive Analyses of Piano Works, a series that blended musical explanation, anecdote, and gentle aesthetic guidance. His prose was clear, enthusiastic, and designed to help students and teachers understand what a piece was trying to express and how to listen to it with imagination.

In 1910 he published Stories of Standard Teaching Pieces, a companion to his earlier analytical volumes. It reflects the same mission: to democratise classical music appreciation for piano teachers, students, and the flourishing network of American music clubs. Perry organised widely used teaching repertoire by level and purpose, offering expressive cues, literary associations, and small narrative “legends” to help young pianists grasp a piece’s character. His writing from this period shows him at the height of his influence - an educator‑advocate who believed that understanding music’s emotional world was as important as mastering its technical demands.

The present anecdote does move into the realms of fantasy, however it is fair to say that for Perry, the literal truth of the story mattered far less than its power to ignite a student's imagination. In his view, a vivid myth was a perfectly legitimate tool if it helped a young player connect emotionally with the music. Writing with his characteristic warmth and descriptive flair, he introduced the piece to his readers with the following vivid narrative:

“This is decidedly the most famous of all Handel's works for the piano, was formerly in universal use, and still holds its own to some extent in popular favour, even appearing at times on the concert programs of prominent artists. It is a good study in clear, melodic phrasing, and crisp, clean-cut finger work.

It consists of a simple, cheerful theme with several increasingly difficult variations, a form once very much in vogue but now rather antiquated and seldom used. It is said to have been conceived under the following circumstances. Handel, who was living in England at the time, was on his way one summer afternoon to the chapel at Cannons [an estate near to Stanmore, Middlesex] to use the organ. He was caught in a sudden thunder shower and took temporary refuge in the village smithy. The sturdy, cheery smith was hard at work at his anvil and sang to himself as he worked, keeping time with the ringing rhythmic blows of the hammer.

This lusty, jovial song, to the fitting accompaniment of the hammer strokes on the iron, while the sparks flew in bright showers and the ruddy forge-fire glowed in the background, furnished Handel with the actual theme, as well as the general idea for this composition. This picture of simple village life and honest cheerful toil in old England should be borne clearly in mind by the player, and its mood reproduced in the music. Alas! for the hearty, healthy, happy yeoman of the old days whom it recalls! The type is wellnigh obsolete in our time.

The melody is supposed to be the song of the smith, note for note, as he sang it, and the suggestions of rhythmic hammer strokes, and clanging anvil, and flying sparks, are obvious and unmistakable. The atmosphere of the forge has been retained, but at the same time, mediocrity has been avoided.

This work is a bit of avowed realism, though written at a time when descriptive music was supposed to be unknown or disdained. The fact is that its beginnings are to be found even among the works of Handel, Haydn, and most of the other so-called severe classicists. Even Bach in his dance forms was pictorial."

 A little more factually than Perry, The Harmonious Blacksmith is the later nickname for the Air and Variations that closes Handel’s Suite No. 5 in E major, HWV 430, published in 1720 as part of his first harpsichord collection. Handel himself called it nothing more than an air with variations; the colourful title only emerged a century later, probably when the Bath music‑seller William Lintern - a former blacksmith - issued the piece separately around 1822. Romantic tales of Handel being inspired by a blacksmith’s hammering are Victorian inventions, but the tune does have earlier roots, echoing material in Playford’s English country dances and in Handel’s own youthful opera Almira.

Listen to George Frideric Handel’s The Harmonious Blacksmith played by Wilhelm Kempff on YouTube, here.

Bach Organ Landscapes Volume 10

Paraphrasing the advertising material for this new disc, one learns that Organ Landscapes was conceived as a long‑term artistic project (2017–2026), comprising ten double albums and two vinyl editions. It presents Bach’s organ music as a body of work shaped by instruments, buildings, and changing artistic perspectives, rather than as a single interpretative concept. Each recording contributes to a broader musical and cultural picture, documenting selected repertoire and an ongoing engagement with questions of context, sound, and interpretation across different acoustic environments.

The first CD in this present recital (Volume 10), performed by organist, harpsichordist, and conductor Jörg Halubek, presents seven works by J. S. Bach in arrangements or adaptations for the late‑Romantic organ. Alongside original organ and harpsichord compositions, it includes pieces written for other media, notably the Chaconne from the Partita No. 2 in D minor for solo violin (BWV 1004) and the famous Air from the Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D major (BWV 1068). They are performed here on the Wilhelm Sauer organ of St Thomas’s Church, Leipzig, an instrument built and remodelled in 1889/1908.

Several of these were arranged by Karl Straube (1873–1950). Deeply influenced by Max Reger’s dense, orchestral organ writing, Straube believed Bach’s music should be realised with the full expressive power of the modern organ. His approach was not antiquarian, but devotional; he aimed to reveal its emotional depth through Romantic means, reimagining Bach rather than "correcting" him. Issued around 1913, his editions were inspired by the Wilhelm Sauer organs he championed: instruments boasting huge dynamic resources, complex stop‑changing mechanisms, and widely contrasting divisions.

These editions became deeply influential in early 20th‑century German church and conservatory life, establishing an opulent, orchestral Bach as the prevailing norm. While the historically informed performance movement later pushed back against this entrenched tradition - leaving Straube’s editions to be valued chiefly today as documents of reception history - they remain invaluable for understanding how Bach was heard in the early 1900s. Straube overlaid the scores with dynamics Bach never imagined, introduced legato phrasing, and thickened textures to suit large Romantic instruments.

The other composers represented here - Max Reger, Wilhelm Middelschulte, and Sigfrid Karg‑Elert also held a deep respect for Bach’s organ music, though their approaches differed. Reger valued “orchestral registrations” but prioritised “contrapuntal density,” expanding textures and adding chromatic inflections. Middelschulte’s Chaconne transcription transforms the violin masterpiece into a grand, symphonic structure. Karg‑Elert, by contrast, sought harmonic colour, exploiting delicate, often Impressionistic registrations, evident in his arrangements of the Air (BWV 1068) and the Pastoral Symphony (BWV 248).

Interestingly, Straube later underwent a radical “conversion” in the 1920s, abandoning his late‑Romantic aesthetic for a more “Baroque‑authentic” style influenced by the Orgelbewegung (Organ Reform Movement), whereas Reger and Middelschulte, for different reasons, continued to work within a fundamentally Romantic/symphonic conception of Bach’s music.

The second CD of the set pivots to an entirely different interpretative world, presenting Bach's Goldberg Variations (BWV 988). My first encounter with it came in the early 1970s via Karl Richter’s harpsichord recording for the Archiv Produktion Bach Edition, followed by pianist Glenn Gould’s legendary 1981 account for CBS Masterworks - exquisitely played, if inevitably punctuated by his vocalising. These days my preferred version is András Schiff’s 2003 ECM recording – once again for piano. Until this present release I had not heard it performed on the organ.

Bach’s Goldberg Variations (c.1741) form the fourth part of the Clavierübung (Keyboard Practice). He described it as “an aria with diverse variations for a two‑manual harpsichord, composed for the refreshment of music lovers.” Anecdotally, it was written for his pupil J. G. Goldberg to play to Count Keyserling as a remedy for his insomnia, though this attestation has since been disputed.

The set opens with an ornamented aria built over a ground bass that underpins all thirty variations. These include a complete cycle of canons at increasing intervals before it closes with a playful quodlibet weaving together popular song melodies of the day.

o the Goldberg Variations work on the organ? Halubek's transcription suggests they do. He describes the composition as “diary‑like,” a sequence of episodes without a fixed goal. The historically styled Central German, three‑manual organ at Trinity Church, Regensburg, dating from 2020 is sympathetic to Bach registrations. The thirty‑two sections “invite register combinations” that can sound novel to the ear. Though the fast movements call for crisp, articulate registrations, the organ’s wide range of stops lets the listener follow the shape of the whole cycle, from the French Overture of the 16th variation through the many canons to the final quodlibet, and in doing so offers a persuasive alternative to the harpsichord or piano.

The well-illustrated booklet lacks detailed notes on these works and their arrangers. Organ specifications are given for both instruments, as well as a biography of the organist, harpsichordist, and conductor, Jörg Halubek.

This tenth volume of Organ Landscapes serves as a fascinating study of Bach’s music as it was shaped and reshaped by the fashions of different eras. By contrasting the lush, orchestral "devotion" of the Straube era with his own lucid, "diary-like" realisation of the Goldberg Variations, Jörg Halubek bridges the gap between Romantic “enthusiasm and excess” and modern clarity.

Track Listing:
Arrangements of Bach’s Music.

CD1
Wilhelm Middelschulte (1863-1943)
from: Partita No.2 in D minor (BWV 1004): Chaconne
Karl Straube (1873-1950)
Prelude in A major (BWV 536)
Max Reger (1873-1916)
Chromatic Fantasia and Fugue (BWV 903)
Sigfrid Karg-Elert (1877-1933)
from: Christmas Oratorio (BWV 248) Pastoral Symphony
Karl Straube
Prelude and Fugue in C major (BWV 547)
Sigfrid Karg-Elert
from: Suite No. 3 in D major (BWV 1068) Air célèbre
Karl Straube
Fantasia and Fugue in G minor (BWV 542)
CD2
Goldberg Variations (BWV 988) (pub.1741)
Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750)
Jörg Halubek (organs)
rec. 2024, St. Thomas’s Church, Leipzig; 2025, Trinity Church, Regensburg Germany. 

Berlin Classics 0303620BC

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

It's not British, but...Poulenc: Music for Two Pianos

The recital opens with one of my favourite pieces by Francis Poulenc: L'Embarquement pour Cythère. Composed in 1951, it is the only published number linked to his score for the film Le Voyage en Amérique, though its exact origin remains a bit of a mystery. It was originally requested by the American piano duo Robert Fizdale and Arthur Gold (affectionately called "Les Boys") for a 1952 concert in New York. Poulenc described it as "an evocation of the banks of the Marne, so dear to my childhood," and impudently suggested to the duo, "I don’t think you should include it in your programme, but rather keep it as a bombe-surprise for an encore...” In Greek mythology, Cythera (French Cythère) is an island associated with the birth and cult of Aphrodite, the goddess of love. Ancient sources describe her rising from sea‑foam near the island before travelling on to Cyprus. In art and literature, “going to Cythera” becomes a poetic metaphor for journeys toward love, beauty, and sensual longing, which is exactly the symbolism Poulenc draws on in L’Embarquement pour Cythère.

The Concert champêtre was completed in 1928, having been originally developed as a concerto for harpsichord and orchestra. It was composed for the legendary harpsichordist Wanda Landowska, whose pioneering performances and teaching played a significant role in the 20th-century revival of the instrument. As the liner notes explain, Poulenc later expanded the solo part for the piano, a version he frequently performed himself. He also arranged a reduction of the orchestral score, effectively creating an authorised version for two pianos. Interestingly, Karl B Schmidt in his indispensable catalogue recalls Poulenc’s comments that “the piano version of the Concert champêtre is only a poor substitute, you hear me right, a poor substitute.” Yet, fittingly, Landowska gave the work its private premiere, with Poulenc himself accompanying her on a second piano.

The concerto unfolds in three distinct movements. The opening is introduced by slow, solemn, and slightly discordant measures, which quickly give way to an Allegro molto in a bright, 18th-century style full of the cheerful irreverence typical of Poulenc at this time. This is followed by the central Andante, a tender, melodically and harmonically exquisite inspiration. Finally, the Presto finale (très gai) masterfully sets Handelian brilliance against Stravinskian bite, all held firmly under Poulenc’s neo-classically disciplined control.

The Élégie for 2 pianos is one of the most heart-breaking numbers that Poulenc composed. It was written during the summer of 1959 to commemorate the death of his friend, the French aristocrat, soprano, pianist, and patron of the arts, Marie-Blanche de Polignac. The piece begins wistfully before building up into a considerable climax with increasingly “bittersweet” chords. The subtitle of Élégie is “en accords alternés,” and this is represented by chords being passed back and forth between the players until they come together for the tormented coda. It is given a suitably tragic performance here. Amusingly, Poulenc left a note in the score instructing the pianists to perform it with a relaxed, spontaneous feel: "as if you were improvising it, a cigar in your mouth, a glass of cognac on the piano."

The ambitious Sonata for two pianos takes a little bit of effort to fully unearth. This is not an example of Poulenc’s lighter, satirical style but instead demands engagement with weighty and often emotionally charged music. Here we have drama, darker episodes, chorale-like textures, and not a few “soaring” melodies thrown in for good measure. Aggressive dissonances are sharply contrasted with passages of achingly beautiful material. Composed between 1952, Poulenc wrote the piece for the above mentioned “Les Boys,” who premiered it during a BBC broadcast in London on November 2, 1953. Poulenc later noted that it was begun in a room at the Hôtel Beauvau in Marseille during December of 1952 which was the same hotel that Chopin stayed at with George Sand upon returning from Majorca.

Structurally, the sonata is built around its emotional core: the third movement lyrical Andante lyrico. The Prologue introduces contrasting, stormy themes, while the Allegro molto offers a dynamic scherzo with a cool centre. After the Andante provides the work’s reflective heart, the Epilogue revisits earlier material, framing the entire sonata with a haunting final thought.

One of the reasons I looked forward to reviewing this disc was to hear Le Voyage en Amerique. I knew about the score but have never had the opportunity to hear it. Poulenc devised the music for the eponymous film in 1951. Wikipedia explains that its plot deals with a French couple travelling to America for their daughter’s childbirth - she had married a GI - confronting culture shock and rediscovering their quiet life’s value back in La Belle France.

As to the music, much of it is in a “popular dance hall style” with lots of swing, panache, and vivacity. Yet, on the other hand, there is a touch of the “melancholic” acting as a kind of sympathetic undercurrent. The performance as presented here is made up of noticeably short cues, sometimes only a handful of bars long. Is that a “pistol” shot in the fourth section, a piano lid falling shut or a box of bolts falling on the floor?

The final part of the “suite” gives a reprise of L'Embarquement pour Cythère this time with the addition of an accordion. Very Gallic.

What makes this release truly remarkable, however, is that the liner notes explain the original holograph (manuscript) was lost. The present transcription had to be produced “by ear” entirely from the film’s audio soundtrack. This kind of ability always impresses me; a touch of genius is required to make such a realisation.

Poulenc provided Yvonne Printemps, an old friend and collaborator, with two songs for the film: Chanson de marin and Adieu maison. Only the latter has been included on this disc, as there has been a previous recording made of the former. This is a pity.

This release is an essential addition to any French music enthusiast’s library. Antony Gray and Rob Hao navigate Poulenc’s distinct sound world with complete assurance, balancing his trademark music-hall irreverence against the profound, darker undercurrents of the Sonata and Élégie. Alise Seliņa’s brief accordion contribution adds a wonderful touch of Parisian nostalgia, while Helen Miles delivers a poignant Adieu maison. Even if Poulenc grumbled about the two-piano Concert champêtre, it sounds marvellous here. Combined with the remarkable “ear-transcription” of the lost Le Voyage en Amérique score, this beautifully recorded disc offers a deeply rewarding, thoroughly authoritative recital.

Track Listing:
Francis Poulenc (1889-1963)
L'Embarquement pour Cythère (1951)
Concert champetre (version for 2 pianos) (1928)
Élégie for 2 pianos (1959)
Sonata for 2 pianos (1953)
Voyage en Amérique (transcr. Antony Gray) (1951)
Adieu Maison (1951)
Antony Gray (piano); Rob Hao (piano); Alise Seliņa (Accordion); Helen Miles (soprano)
rec. 2025, Wathen Hall, Lonsdale Road, London.
Divine Art ddx 21149

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

Alec Templeton: Bach Goes to Town

I was tidying up a pile of sheet music the other day when I came across a piano solo by Alec Templeton – Bach Goes to Town. I gave it a quick play through but discovered it is just a little beyond my technique – at least to play it at the correct bustling speed.

Alec Templeton was born in Cardiff, Wales in 1909. He was blind from birth but possessed perfect pitch. He was a classically trained pianist at the Royal Academy of Music, but latterly he refused to be bound by the mores of classical music. Moving to the United States in 1935,  he joined Jack Hylton’s Jazz Band. He became a radio personality, with a particular panache for his “musical portrait” and his uncanny ability to improvise in the style of any great composer. He was a genuine “crossover” musician who combined his deep respect for the classical masters, with his instinctive feel for jazz and swing. Alec Templeton died in 1963.

Composed in 1938, Templeton’s Bach Goes to Town, is a sophisticated musical “joke.” Whilst strictly parodying the structure and even basic figuration of a Baroque Prelude and Fugue (so beloved of J.S. Bach, Buxtehude, and others) he injected the syncopation and “blue notes” of the Swing era.

The piece begins with a flowing prelude that feels like a 1930s cocktail lounge meeting a 1730s cathedral. This shifts into a rigorous, four-part (or nearly four-part) fugue. While the counterpoint is technically precise - meeting the academic standards of Bach’s own works - the rhythmic drive is pure jazz.

Although originally written for piano solo, Bach Goes to Town gained massive popularity when it was arranged for the Benny Goodman Orchestra in 1938. Goodman’s recording helped solidify the piece as a crossover hit, proving that the structural brilliance of the Baroque era could find a vibrant second life on the dance floors of New York.

Listen to Philip Sear playing Templeton’s Bach Goes to Town for piano, on YouTube, here.

William Alwyn: Fanfare for a Joyful Occasion

I have always enjoyed the Fanfare for a Joyful Occasion since first hearing it on the Chandos release (CHAN9093) back in the early 1990s with Richard Hickox and the London Symphony Orchestra. It made an immediate impression then, and it still does. The work, which was commissioned by the Nottingham Youth Orchestra, was dedicated to the well‑respected percussion player Jimmy Blades (1901-99). Mary Alwyn (Doreen Carwithen) has written that her husband often consulted Blades “on the complexity of writing for these instruments in the modern symphony orchestra,” and that insight alone helps explain the piece’s distinctive sonority.

It is hardly surprising, then, that the Fanfare employs a battery of percussion including marimba, vibraphone, and glockenspiel. The score also calls for four horns, three trumpets, three trombones and a tuba, a compact but potent ensemble that gives the piece its punch. While sometimes described as 'flashy,' this is not a criticism, but rather an apt description of its extrovert nature, with brilliantly lit music, driven by rhythm and by Alwyn’s sheer delight in colour.

It opens with a brilliant fanfare section that may recall Walton and his ‘royal’ marches – be they for Henry, Richard, George, or Elizabeth. Yet the swagger does not last long. The mood soon dies down and soft, chiming sounds from the tuned percussion create an atmosphere that is almost Malcolm Arnold‑esque in its wistfulness. From here the music builds steadily through a long crescendo with brass and percussion combining in an increasingly insistent surge that drives the work towards a loud, even deafening conclusion.

The Fanfare had its first performance cancelled because of Blade’s indisposition, but was eventually premiered on 13 November 1964, at the Birmingham Town Hall, with Stanley Adams conducting the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra. Blades later explained that “... this fine work proved no ‘joyful occasion’ for me!” for “at the first performance the three percussionists were to be myself and my brothers, Tommy and Chris, but I was laid low with an attack of the shingles…”

Whether this is a 'great' work is for each listener to determine. What can be said with certainty is that it is impressive, noisy, and consistently interesting — a compact showcase of Alwyn’s craftsmanship, his ear for colour, and his ability to make even a ceremonial miniature feel purposeful and alive.

Listen to William Alwyn's Fanfare for a Joyful Occasion on Richard Hickox and the London Symphony Orchestra on YouTube, here.

A Musical Scraper: Sullivan’s Wit in Bohemian London

Browsing an old copy of the Sir Arthur Sullivan Society Magazine (Autumn 1996, p.11) recently, I came across a noticeably short, but I think witty anecdote about Sullivan and fellow composer, the Sir Alexander Mackenzie [1]. The story is preserved in Mrs Clement Scott’s illuminating Old Days in Bohemian London published by Hutchinson in 1919.

But first, a little context. Margaret Scott, née Brandon was the widow of the influential Victorian theatre critic Clement Scott. Her book offers a vivid, affectionate portrait of London’s theatrical world, drawing on decades spent alongside her husband at the centre of late‑Victorian and Edwardian stage culture. She recounts the personalities, salons, and bohemian circles that shaped Scott’s career, preserving anecdotes about actors, managers, and the social rituals of opening nights. The memoir blends personal reminiscence with cultural history, illuminating the networks and friendships that sustained the theatrical profession.

Clement William Scott was one of the most formidable and controversial theatre critics of late‑Victorian London, a man whose first‑night verdicts could make actors tremble and managers’ despair. Born in 1841, he began his career as a civil servant before drifting, irreversibly, into journalism and the theatre world. His criticism for The Daily Telegraph, which he joined in 1871, became famous for its florid style, acerbic wit, and absolute certainty of judgment.

Scott also wrote plays, adaptations, travel writing, and lyrics (including the once‑ubiquitous “Oh Promise Me”). His influence was immense, but so were the quarrels he provoked: he clashed with William Archer, Henrik Ibsen, and George Bernard Shaw. A disastrous 1898 interview, in which he attacked the morals of theatre people, especially actresses, effectively ended his career and left him impoverished in later life. He died in 1904, leaving behind a legacy both brilliant and bruised.

Mrs Clement Scott wrote:

An amusing story went the round about Arthur Sullivan and Sir Alexander Mackenzie.

They were going out to dinner one night in Savile Row. Neither of them could remember the number.

" How can I recollect numbers?" said Sir Alexander. " All I know is the door scraper is E Flat."

Away they went kicking the door-scrapers along the row.

"Here we are, this is E Flat!" exclaimed Arthur Sullivan. And it was the house right enough.

It is a perfect snapshot of the "Bohemian London" the Scotts inhabited: a place where even a mundane door scraper was judged by its tone, and where the most powerful critic in England was just another guest at the table.

Old Days in Bohemian London: Recollections of Clement Scott, Mrs. Clement Scott (ed.), London: Hutchinson, 1919, p.158.

Notes:

[1] Sir Alexander Mackenzie (1847–1935) was a Scottish composer, conductor, and Principal of the Royal Academy of Music, central to Britain’s musical renaissance. A champion of national style, he blended Scottish idioms with late‑Romantic orchestral colour. His operas, violin works, and choral pieces earned international respect, and he tirelessly promoted younger British composers throughout his long career.

Adam Saunders: Orchestral Music

Originally a forerunner to the ‘fugue,’ a Capriccio (root meaning from the Latin capra, “goat”) has latterly become a term for a humorous or “capricious” piece of music, rather fleet on its feet, a little unpredictable, and often delighting in sudden turns of mood. Philip Lane, in the liner notes, describes the opening track, Capriccio (2025) on this disc as a “bright, exuberant, concert overture,” exploring various themes. Some are dance-like, others a little more wistful, offering a moment of repose. Overall, this is a good-humoured number, getting the concert off to a respectable start.

The longest work on this disc is the Three Pictures for Orchestra, dating from 2025. The notes explain that it was designed to show off each section of the orchestra across its three movements, each bearing a picturesque title that gently steers the listener’s imagination. It opens with Fanfare and Celebrations, which is more than just ceremonial flourishes: there are busy strings and deft interplay between brass and woodwind, giving a sense of festivity. The second movement, Rivers of Calm, Peaks of Magnificence, balances moments of serenity with passages of great grandeur - possibly a little unbalanced here and there but containing some lovely tuned‑percussion scoring. The finale, Dances of Exuberance, is exactly what it says on the tin, though it also finds room for quieter, more reflective episodes. It is perfectly possible for the listener to ignore the suggested titles altogether and enjoy the piece simply as a compact symphony, or even a kind of sinfonietta.

Philip Lane explains that Sketches of New York for Strings and Harp (2025) was inspired by Saunders’s visits to the Big Apple over many years. It is designed to capture moods and scenes that are “exhilarating, fascinating and melancholic.” The opening sketch, Bustling Metropolis, is full of the razzamatazz of people on the move – by road, subway, or ferry. Lonely Souls takes a dark look at those who seem to live in a parallel existence of homelessness and deprivation, removed from the city’s relentless energy. The most evocative movement is Green Oases, which meditates on the “wonderful parks” in the city, most especially Central Park, evoking a stroll with one’s lover. The concluding section is a celebration of a City at Play, with a musical depiction of a “fun‑filled night out, with all the glitz and glamour that New York offers…” My only issue with these Sketches is the lack of muted trumpets, saxophones, and percussion. These brash instruments seem to me essential for creating an impression of An Englishman in New York.

The magical mood of Christmastime is reflected in the Parade of the Snowmen (2025). To listeners of a certain age, it can feel as though there was snow every year; perchance we are all recalling the winter of 1962/63 as a kind of folk memory. Children today have had fewer chances to build snowmen. Philip Lane notes that the music portrays “snowmen [waking] up all over the land, one by one they join the parade as it passes their respective gardens….” There is magical scoring, suggesting snowflakes, fun and laughter, the march itself, a little mischief, and a touch of wistful nostalgia as the parade gradually sits down exhausted.

I do not know if there is a definite programme to the vivacious The Magical Kingdom (2003). Children of all ages want to enter a secret place, where there are mysterious fairytale characters and scenes. We want to feel safe even in the presence of dragons, trolls, and ogres. Saunders’s score provides an almost Disney-like filmic impression of these secret realms. Only towards the conclusion is there a hint of malevolence and this is soon swept away with a happy-ever-after coda.

It is all too easy to dismiss a Sinfonietta as insignificant beside a full‑blown symphony, yet many examples of the genre possess considerable artistic weight. Think of those by William Alwyn, Leoš Janáček, or E.J. Moeran: certainly not lightweight. Adam Saunders’s 2025 contribution is a shade less substantial, but it remains an engaging and well‑crafted work. It opens with a brassy Allegro con spirito, setting a bold fanfare against a more languorous second subject in a straightforward sonata‑allegro design. The central Adagio tranquillo - nocturnal and atmospheric - is the emotional heart of the piece. A skittish Scherzo giocondo follows, full of wit and eccentricity, before a good old‑fashioned Allegro brillante rondo brings the Sinfonietta to a vibrant close. At around eleven minutes, it feels a touch brief, with several promising ideas curtailed, but it remains an enjoyable and satisfying miniature.

Another wintry work is the Fairytale Sleighride (2008). The title can be taken literally or metaphorically. For some, it may summon Omar Sharif and Julie Christie gliding through the vast, frozen landscapes of Russia in Doctor Zhivago; for others, the image might be Santa Claus dashing around the world each Christmas Eve. But this is not all whimsy. There is a hint of danger, too — the fairytale is that of the Snow Queen, carrying the boy Kai away in her white sleigh across a glittering, inhospitable wilderness.

I would have appreciated a little more information about the Ballet for Strings (2025). For one thing, is there a plot or scenario behind the well-wrought five “imaginary” dance scenes? Each movement is given a title: Giocoso, Grazioso, Animato, Delicato, and Energico, which certainly suggests contrasting characters, but it remains unclear whether these are simply abstract moods or part of a more cohesive narrative. A few words on the Saunders’s intentions would have helped illuminate how these charming dances relate to one another. That said, this “Suite” is on a par with Parry’s Lady Radnor’s Suite and Holst’s Brook Green Suite. It should find a place in the repertoire.

As a child, I was never entirely sure where Santa Claus lived, though I imagined it was the North Pole, somewhere amidst the icy waters of the Arctic Ocean. Nowadays, his official hometown appears to be Rovaniemi, Finland, right on the Arctic Circle, although the Finns have long regarded Korvatunturi, near the Russian border, as Santa’s magically‑protected home.  Rovaniemi now hosts two major theme parks: Santa Claus Village and Santa Park.

Adam Saunders’s Journey to Lapland (2020) seems to acknowledge the commercialism of this modern destination, with the liner notes detailing snowmobiles, sleigh rides, and husky sledding. Yet, vibrant, and full of cinematic sparkle, the piece perfectly captures the pure excitement of a festive adventure heading to points north.

This recording grew from a suggestion by Philip Lane, the well-known proponent of British Light Music, to display Adam Saunders’s concert music. A graduate and later Associate of the Royal Academy of Music, Saunders has enjoyed a varied career as performer, educator, and composer, with his orchestral repertoire performed worldwide by ensembles from the Royal Philharmonic and BBC orchestras to the Hallé and Hong Kong Sinfonietta. His work spans film, television, and major creative projects across the UK.

Overall, this new disc from Heritage offers a lively and engaging survey of Saunders’s orchestral writing. Not every idea feels fully explored, but the artisanry, colour, and narrative talent are consistently appealing. Admirers of British light music (and so-called serious as well) will find much here to enjoy.

Track Listing:
Adam Saunders (b.1968)
Capriccio (2025)
Three Pictures for Orchestra (2025)
Sketches of New York for Strings and Harp (2025)
Parade of the Snowmen (2025)
The Magical Kingdom (2003)
Sinfonietta (2025)
Fairytale Sleighride (2008)
Ballet for Strings (2025)
Journey to Lapland (2020)
Royal Ballet Sinfonia/Peter Harrison; Gavin Sutherland (The Magical Kingdom); Barry Wordsworth (Journey to Lapland)
rec. 2-3 January 2026; 12 September 2023 (Journey to Lapland) Henry Wood Hall, London; 4 February 2024 (The Magical Kingdom), CTS Wembley, London
Heritage HTGCD 117

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

A Radio 3 Memory: Discovering Alwyn’s Miss Julie

I can still vividly remember looking forward to the evening of 16 July 1977. It was the day defined by a specific broadcast on BBC Radio 3: the premiere of William Alwyn’s opera, Miss Julie. At the time, I was less certain of my critical standing on the work, though I distinctly recall that certain melodic fragments appealed to my sensibilities. Looking back, I suspect the intricacies of the plot may have passed me by; opera, with its heavy symbolism and demanding narratives, has never been my strongest suit.

Despite my uncertainty, the event felt significant enough that I captured the broadcast on my old cassette recorder. To this day, those tapes remain in my possession - relics of a major event in Alwyn’s musical career. Curiously, however, I have never revisited them. Even when the definitive recording arrived on CD (Lyrita SRCD2218, 1992), it somehow failed to find a permanent home in my collection, leaving my memory of the music suspended in that summer of '77.

Composed between 1973 and 1976, Miss Julie represents Alwyn’s engagement with the raw, naturalist drama of the Swedish playwright August Strindberg. The work was not finally staged in the United Kingdom until 15 October 1997 at Norwich.

To understand the gravity of the music, one must look to the narrative. Andrew Knowles has provided an excellent précis that bears repeating: 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."

It is a harrowing psychological study. When compared to the bright, satirical world of Gilbert and Sullivan - which back in the day I much preferred (and still do) - Miss Julie is a dark descent into class conflict and despair. It is hardly the sort of "happy tale" one puts on to the turntable to cheer the spirits, which explains why the full production has remained at arm's length for me for so many years.

The story of this music took an interesting turn in 2000, when Philip Lane was commissioned by the composer’s widow, Mary Alwyn (Doreen Carwithen), to adapt suitable sections of the opera into a standalone orchestral suite. This transition from stage to concert hall raises an interesting question regarding the raison-d’être of the operatic suite. Is its primary purpose merely to condense the "good bits" into a manageable chunk for the concert hall? Perhaps by removing the vocal lines, the "shame" and "despair" are abstracted into musical tension and release.

We see this tradition across the repertoire, from the vibrant sequences of Bizet’s Carmen to the more complex suites derived from Tippett’s The Midsummer Marriage or Britten’s Death in Venice. I find myself ambivalent about the form. A purist might argue that if you want the music, you should commit to the full production, complete with the libretto and staging. Yet, there is a counterargument to be made for accessibility: the suite allows for a concise exploration of Alwyn’s excellent scoring without the emotional "burden" of the tragic plot or the linguistic demands of the singing.

This Suite provides the listener with a transformative experience. By stripping away the harrowing specifics of Strindberg’s drama, the music is allowed to stand "absolutely." What remains is a collection of very impressive, often deeply romantic sequences that highlight Alwyn’s late-period mastery. In this format, the listener can appreciate the lush textures and harmonic depth of the score as a pure symphonic expression, unburdened by the tragic fate of the Count’s daughter. It turns a dark theatrical experience into a luminous orchestral journey.

Listen to the three movement Miss Julie Suite conducted by David Lloyd-Jones with the Liverpool Philharmonic  (Naxos 8.570705, 2010) on YouTube, here – 1. Allegro - Valse tempo - Moderato (Tempo di polka); 2. Andante sostenuto (poco adagio) ; 3. Lento - Allegro non troppo – Molto Moderato

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.