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.

Discovering William Alwyn (1905-1985) Part I

I first discovered William Alwyn whilst listening to Record Review on Radio 3. This would have been around 1972. One of the works assessed that day was the Symphonic Prelude: The Magic Island (1952). It bowled me over. I hurried out of the house that very morning and managed to find a copy of the record at Cuthbertson’s Music Shop in Glasgow (sadly long gone). This wonderful evocation of Prospero’s Island weaved its magic spell on me. It was coupled with Alwyn’s Symphony No.3 (1956) which took me some time to get to grips with. Yet, it soon became my favourite of his “Five.” It was the first Symphony by a British composer that I had heard at that time (apart from those by Vaughan Williams and Edward Elgar).

Over the succeeding half century, I have listened to much of William Alywn’s music – on the radio and recordings. Sad to say, I have rarely come across it in the concert hall or recital room (apart from the Alwyn Festivals). Despite many delightfully approachable pieces, he seems to have been ignored by Classic fM.

This present essay supplies an introductory survey of William Alwyn’s music. After some brief biographical notes, I propose to make a chronological journey through nine of his compositions. The essay will conclude with some bibliographical hints for further study, and a brief look at the recording history of Alwyn’s work.

Biographical Notes

William Alwyn (William Alwyn Smith) was born on 7 November 1905, at 54 Kettering Road, in Northampton. This town, once best-known for boot-making, was the birthplace of two other esteemed composers: Edmund Rubbra and Malcolm Arnold. At the early age of fifteen, He entered the Royal Academy of Music (RAM). There, he studied the flute with Daniel Wood, and composition with the Scottish composer, John Blackwood McEwen. Due to economic reasons, upon the death of his father, Alwyn had to leave the R.A.M. He returned to Northampton for a brief time, before working as a teacher at Fernden School in Surrey and playing the flute in several theatre orchestras.

Alwyn was to return to the R.A.M. in 1926 as Composition Professor. He kept this position for nearly 30 years. The following year, he was engaged as flautist with the London Symphony Orchestra. The first major triumph was the performance on 22 September of his Five Preludes during the 1927 Promenade Concert Season. Major successes during the 1930s included his Piano Concerto No.1, and the oratorio, The Marriage of Heaven and Hell, based on a text by William Blake. In 1936, he completed his first film score for the documentary The Future’s in the Air.

Just before the start of the Second World War, Alwyn decided that he needed to reinvent himself as a composer. He disowned his early efforts and declared that his “opus 1” was the Divertimento for solo flute (1939). Fortunately, much of his juvenilia was not destroyed, and have been unearthed in recent decades. During the 1940s, some of Alwyn’s music was vitiated by neo-classicism. He abandoned what he called “the ear-tickling harmony” of his earlier works. However, he soon allowed himself the luxury of “romantic elements” in the Symphony No.1 (1949) and The Magic Island (1952). Further developments of his style included a personal adaptation of serialism, which he used alongside tonality and conventional formal structures. In conjunction with the many film scores, Alwyn’s reputation rests on his cycle of five symphonies. These were produced between 1949 and 1973.

Alwyn took a great interest in the business of music. He was elected chairman of the Composer’s Guild in 1949, 1950 and 1959, was an active member of the Society for the Promotion of New Music and, onetime director of the Performing Rights Society. Other interests were literature and painting. He had an enviable collection of Pre-Raphaelite paintings and practised as an artist. Alwyn retired to Blythburgh, Suffolk in 1961, and devoted himself to composition, painting and poetry. He was married twice: to Olive Pull in 1929 (divorced in 1972), and Doreen Carwithen (1922-2003) in 1975. In 1978, he was awarded the CBE. William Alwyn died at Southwold and District Hospital, Suffolk on 11 September 1985.

Bibliographical Details

Basic information on the life and achievement of William Alwyn can be found in the various editions of Grove’s Dictionary of Music and Musicians, as well as other reference books, Wikipedia, and CD liner notes.

Entry level for Alwyn studies is John C. Dressler’s William Alwyn: A Research and Information Guide. Published by Routledge in 2011, this book offers biographical information, a catalogue of works including film scores, writings by and about the composer, and a comprehensive discography, including non-commercial recordings.

Earlier contributions included a long chapter in Francis Routh’s (a former pupil of Alwyn) Contemporary British Music: The Twenty-Five Years from 1945 to 1970, published in 1972. In 1985, Stewart R. Craggs & Alan J. Poulton’s William Alwyn: A Catalogue of his Music (Bravura Publications) was the first attempt at providing a comprehensive list of his work but with limited bibliographical information.

There are two major biographical studies. The first is William Alwyn: The Art of Film Music by Ian Johnson, published by Boydell Press (2005). This concentrates on his film scores and ignores the “art” music. Three years later, the ‘official’ biography, The Innumerable Dance: The Life and Work of William Alwyn by Adrian Wright was published, again by Boydell Press. This covered comprehensively his life and work in objective detail.

In 2010, Composing in Words: William Alwyn on his Art was issued by Toccata Press. Edited by Andrew Palmer, this wide-ranging collection of texts penned by the composer, includes the elusive Ariel to Miranda diary, charting the writing of the Symphony No.3, and the complete text of his autobiographical Winged Chariot.

There are few dissertations and theses from scholars. The easiest available are The Symphonies of William Alwyn: A Critical and Analytical Study by Trevor William Barrowcliffe (2013), and Neoclassicism in the Music of William Alwyn by Elizabeth Sweet (2016).

To be continued…

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

Scott Joplin: King of Ragtime

Whilst James Scott, Joseph Lamb and Scott Joplin were collectively known as the “three B’s” of classic ragtime, (a mischievous echo of the classical trio Bach–Beethoven–Brahms) it was Joplin that elevated the genre into a genuine art-form. For him, this was never mere ‘saloon music’ but a genuine classical form: American Classical Music. This new 2 CD set by Filipina pianist Cecile Licad does not claim to be the complete edition. As Joplin is claimed to have written more than fifty rags, this survey explores nearly half of the surviving pieces and includes favourites as well as some lesser-known examples. Listening to this recital at a sitting is quite a challenge as many ‘rags’ follow a rigid structural pattern, and may all begin to sound alike. Yet it is this rigidity that makes the performers’ interpretation so important.

I guess that one of the hazards for pianists is playing the rags at too great a tempo - as high-speed novelties. Joplin himself once wrote that "It is never right to play Ragtime fast." Here Licad approaches the tempo correctly: the playing is always neat and cool, rather than frenetic. Her approach to repeats is to bring variation in colour, voicing, and dynamics. The basic left-hand pattern of a rag is “oom-pah” and usually the syncopated right hand needs to be crisp and sometimes a little wayward. Licad captures this balance effectively, ensuring the rhythm remains the focus without becoming mechanical.

It is not necessary to comment on each rag here. Many listeners will skip to one of the three big hits. It is fair to suggest that the Maple Leaf Rag (1899) is the epitome of ragtime style. There is nothing easy here. The performance should be balanced and rhythmical, but not overly showy. The steady, insistent stride bass in the left hand is no cinch.

The Entertainer (1902) shot to fame in the 1973 film The Sting, starring Paul Newman and Robert Redford. Like countless others I bought the score and found I could make a reasonable fist of it. In the intervening years, this rag has become a bit hackneyed, and it is to Cecile Licad’s credit that she is able to bring a charming freshness to this world-famous number.

For those who think that all rags are indistinguishable, the Solace (A Mexican Serenade) is a refreshing change. Joplin has been influenced by the Tango here, and has created a moody, melancholic little composition.

As a little encore, Licad has concluded her recital with Bill Evans’s quiet and contemplative Peace Piece. It provides a poignant, ‘modern’ contrast to the syncopated vitality of the preceding rags.

This is not a chronological account of these rags. Unfortunately, no dates are given for each piece, but Licad’s presentation is based on variety of moods and styles. She has performed this recital on a Steinway concert grand rather than using a “honky-tonk” or parlour piano, so there is warmth and subtlety here. Yet the original brightness and vivacity have not been sacrificed. The liner notes give a fair introduction to the repertoire, although more detail might have been given about each piece. There are brief notes about the genre’s historical context.

I have never counted myself among the keenest admirers of Scott Joplin’s music, yet this collection has a persuasive charm for me. Despite this not being a definitive collection of his rags, it provides a wonderful “entry level” exploration into a once popular musical era.

Track Listing:

Scott Joplin (c.1868-1917)
CD 1
Original Rags
The Entertainer
Pineapple Rag
Breeze from Alabama
Solace (A Mexican Serenade)
Peacherine Rag
The Paragon Rag
Ragtime Dance
Heliotrope Bouquet
Reflection Rag
Elite Syncopations

CD 2
The Easy Winners
Leola
Magnetic Rag
Gladiolus Rag
Fig Leaf Rag
Stoptime Rag
Wall Street Rag
Rose Leaf Rag
Search-Light Rag
Maple Leaf Rag
Bill Evans (1929-80)
Peace Piece
Cecile Licad (piano)
rec. 12-16 January 2026, Calliope West, San Rafael, California, USA
Danacord DACOCD 1010 [2CD]
With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published.

Clifford Curzon plays Liszt’s Liebesträume No.3

I first heard Franz Liszt’s potboiler, the Liebesträume No. 3, played by the English pianist Ronald Smith. It was the final track on an EP recital, Piano Masterpieces (Embassy Records, WEP1103). The disc also included Dame Myra Hess’s beautiful arrangement of the chorale from the tenth section of J. S. Bach’s Cantata No. 147, Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben (Heart and mouth and deed and life), BWV 147, followed by Chopin’s ‘Revolutionary’ Study, Op. 10 No. 12. The “flip side” offered the once‑ubiquitous Prelude in C‑sharp minor, Op. 3 No. 2, from the Morceaux de Fantaisie (c. 1892).

I was taken by all four works on first hearing, and they have remained favourites for more than half a century. Even so, it was the Liszt that captivated me most, and I played it over and over again.

A few years later I discovered another version of this piece on a remarkable LP which I found in the school music room library. This was Clifford Curzon’s LP, A Liszt Recital (Decca SXL 6076). The details are straight forward. The recording was made at the Sofiensaal, Vienna during sessions in April and September 1963. It was engineered by Gordon Parry and produced by John Culshaw. Interestingly, the recording was made using Decca’s “wideband” stereo era technology, which was noted for its clarity and warmth. Side A offered the Sonata in B minor, with Side B comprising present piece, the Valse oubliée No. 1, Gnomenreigen, and the Berceuse - a sequence that places the Liebestraum as the programme’s lyrical centre of gravity.

The album was later released on international issues (e.g., London Records CS 6371 in the US, 1964) which helped cement the recording’s reputation and ensured wide circulation. It has since been remastered on CD.

A few words about Clifford Curzon may be of interest. He was born in Islington, London of 18 May 1907. He was originally named Clifford Michael Siegenberg, with the family changing their name on the outbreak of the First World War. Precocious, he entered the Royal Academy of Music in 1919, where he would become a sub-professor by the age of nineteen. He won the Macfarren Gold Medal in 1924. Curzon continued his studies with Artur Schnabel in Berlin and Wanda Landowska and Nadia Boulanger in Paris. 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.

International recognition came during the 1930s eventually making an acclaimed tour of the United States in 1939. Despite having a wide-ranging repertoire, he specialised in Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Schumann, and Brahms, with critics praising his combination of delicacy, structural insight, and expressive depth. He was honoured with major distinctions including CBE (1958), knighthood (1977), and the Royal Philharmonic Society Gold Medal (1980). Sir Clifford Curzon died on 1 September 1982.

While Franz Liszt published three Liebesträume (“Dreams of Love”) in 1850, it is the third number that has achieved near-universal immortality, while its companions remain rarely performed. Like many of Liszt’s finest lyrical works for the piano, it began life as a song: specifically, his 1845 setting of Ferdinand Freiligrath’s poem O lieb, so lang du lieben kannst (“Love as long as you can love”). Liszt revised the original song twice before publishing this definitive solo piano transcription in 1850, transforming a vocal reflection into a Romantic masterpiece that prioritises expressive narrative over strict formal complexity.

The piece begins quietly in A‑flat major, with its well‑known, soaring melody floating over soft, rippling chords. For the middle section, Liszt gently moves into the brighter, more remote key of B major, giving the music a lift in colour and emotional intensity. As it develops, the writing becomes fuller and more dramatic. There are two delicate, virtuosic cadenzas that serve as structural hinges. The music rises to a passionate high point, where the main theme returns in bold right‑hand octaves above sweeping figures in both hands, before everything gradually settles into a calm, reflective ending.

Listen to Clifford Curzon playing Liszt’s Liebesträume No.3 on YouTube, here.

It's not British, but...Charles-Marie Widor's Piano Music on Danacord

Ever since the late Francis Jackson powered through the recessional at York Minster at the Duke and Duchess of Kent’s wedding in 1961, Widor’s Toccata has held a special place in the hearts of blushing brides and grooms. How many organists have made a poor fist of battling through this warhorse on an inadequate instrument with its plethora of notes and figurations? I understand discussions about music at weddings often revolve around “Widdor’s Tock-Atta,” certainly if the voluntaries chosen are not renditions of Ed Sheeran or Celine Dion.

Organ buffs might have explored the ten organ symphonies and discovered that the movements in these are good, and perhaps, indifferent. For those of us who indulge in obscurity, there may have been adventures with one or other of the two piano concertos, the Symphony No.1, the Violin Concerto, or the Piano Trio and Quintet. That said, I imagine precious few will have discovered the piano music.

The advertising flyer for this new disc from Danacord, explains that Daniel Grimwood recognised that Widor was “so famous and so unknown” after reading John R Near’s definitive modern biography and was made aware of the solo piano music. This has, until now, remained in the shadows.

The recital opens with the Variations sur un Thème original, op. 29 (1892), which were a recrafting of the earlier Variations de concert sur un thème original, op.1 (1867). The liner notes suggest that this work most approximates Widor’s organ music style but also includes nods to the baroque era. Charming is the best description of most of this work with Variation No.4, Adagio, being quite profound.

Grimwood rightly suggests that Widor’s Carnival (1889) is modelled on Schumann’s eponymous album. He describes this twelve-movement collection as “sexy, profound, whimsical, dangerous, [and] occasionally silly.”  Like the elder composer’s work, it is a vivid sequence of character pieces portraying masked revellers, friends, lovers, and alter egos: Widor presents a “varied cast” without always giving a hint as to who is who.

The collection is framed by two marches, Timbales et Trompettes and the cheeky Finale. The loveliest is Francesca, who may or may not nod to the Italian noble woman of Rimini, portrayed by artists, writers, and composers since Dante. This is ravishing music, which could well stand alone. There are various dances here, including a fine Bal Masqué, a vibrant Hongroise and an elfin Entrée Turque. And one wonders who Zanetto (a young poet and minstrel from the later Pietro Mascagni 1896 opera?) and Rosita were modelled on. This is a wonderful collection of pieces, that typically should be heard together (with the aforementioned exception).

The notes explain that Widor’s Cinq Pièces, op. 71, was probably completed around 1895. They were not published until 1903 followed by subsequent revisions and later editions. The stunning opening Valse gaie has several contrasting sections, staccato, complex whimsical and with clear nods to Schumann. This is succeeded by the brief, lugubrious Valse triste, which is excessively chromatic. The Kermesse carillonnante has been described as “Widor’s most bravura style piano piece, made to measure for concert use…” This is a celebration of a saint’s festival, and features insistent chromatic runs, bell-like sonorities, vivid arpeggios, and hints of waltzes. Different in mood is the “desolate” Valse oubliée, however relief is brought about by a delightful Schubertian waltz as the contrasting theme. This is a love lost and recalled. Daniel Grimwood provides a suggested narrative for Après la Fête, which implies “morning-after recollections of a party stabbed through with pangs of guilt a drunken misdemeanour or other.” I am not quite so sure about this contention: again, there seems to be some angst here that suggests a misunderstanding with the beloved… Overall, the Cinq Pièces’s graceful textures and virtuosity place them within the French piano tradition shaped by Saint‑Saëns, Franck and Fauré.

The delicious Nocturne (1892) was originally part of the incidental music for Auguste Dorchain’s play Conte d’Avril, based on Shakespeare’s comedy Twelfth Night. The liner notes suggest that this present transcription came by way of the third movement (there a Romance) of the Suite for flute and piano, op.34 (1884).

It does not come as a shock to discover that the final track on this disc presents Widor’s own piano transcription of his most legendary movement from his best-known organ work, the Toccata. The pedal part is cleverly absorbed by the left hand, with the beloved figurations still complete in the right. It makes a splendid conclusion to an interesting and novel recording.

Daniel Grimwood is noted for his performances of 19th-century virtuosic piano repertoire, particularly of the works of German composer, Adolph von Henselt. He has appeared at significant venues worldwide, including the Wigmore Hall, and Symphony Hall, Birmingham, as well as venues in Europe, Egypt, Lebanon, and Oman, and Australia. Grimwood is a Research Associate at the University of York, specialising in 19th-century performance practice. For enthusiasts of British music, his recording of works by Doreen Carwithen and William Alwyn (Edition Peters, EPS007, 2019) was warmly received by critics.

With clear, vibrant sound and scholarly liner notes, this release successfully rescues Widor’s piano output from the shadows of his organ symphonies. Daniel Grimwood proves to be the ideal advocate for these "character pieces," successfully navigating their varied moods. It is a novel, refreshing recording that leaves the listener with a single thought: why has it taken this long to hear them?

Track Listing:
Charles-Marie Widor (1844-1937)
Variations sur un Thème original, op. 29 (1892)
Carnaval, op. 61 (original version) (1889)
Cinq pièces op. 71 (c.1895, rev. pub.1923)
Nocturne: Andantino, from Conte d’Avril op. 64 (1892)
Toccata. Allegro (arr. Widor) From Organ Symphony No. 5 op. 42 (1879)
Daniel Grimwood (piano)
rec. 17-18 December 2025, Sir Jack Lyons Concert Hall, University of York, York.
Danacord DACOCD 1008
With thanks to MusicWeb International where this review was first published.

George Butterworth: A Shropshire Lad, Rhapsody for Full Orchestra (1912)

This post was inspired by one of Rosa Newmarch’s programme notes written for the Queen’s Hall Orchestra between the years 1908 and 1927.

This Rhapsody, together with the orchestral Idyll On the Banks of Green Willow, stands as part of the too‑small legacy of a remarkably gifted composer of the modern British school—one whose promise was cut short when he was killed in action in August 1916. Lieutenant George Butterworth, Durham Light Infantry, M.C., was educated at Trinity College, Oxford, where he quickly became a leading figure among the undergraduate musicians. After taking his degree he studied at the Royal College of Music and soon devoted himself to collecting English folksongs and Morris dance tunes, a pursuit that surely helped shape the deeply national character of his musical voice.

Although Butterworth rarely quoted traditional melodies outright, he seems to have absorbed the idiom of British folk music so completely that it re-emerged in his work as something unmistakably personal yet firmly rooted in the soil of his homeland. The most characteristic examples of his art are the two song cycles on A. E. Housman’s A Shropshire Lad. These much‑loved poems, which have inspired many composers, are here set with a modern sensibility and a striking originality.

The Rhapsody (1912) functions as an orchestral epilogue to the two cycles, drawing on the theme from one of them- Loveliest of Trees:

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

Rather than interpreting the poem directly, the Rhapsody offers a kind of musical after‑image: the impression of someone recalling the song long afterwards, stirred by its memory into gentle regret and longing.

The work opens with a soft A‑minor chord in muted strings, over which the violas introduce a brief figure in thirds, echoed by the clarinets. This motif returns several times with subtle variations, always in the same instrumental colours, establishing a mood of tender melancholy. At bar sixteen, following a harp chord, a lyrical clarinet phrase emerges; five bars later, another short idea appears in the woodwind and violins. These three ideas form the backbone of the piece and recur throughout.

Their development unfolds across several pages until a half‑climax is reached, marked by an emphatic trumpet phrase above a descending figure in the lower brass and a drum roll. The music then intensifies, the orchestration thickening for a time, before subsiding into a quieter passage where a new theme moves gently in the strings. The woodwind joins in, and the work soon surges toward a passionate full‑orchestra climax.

The remainder of the Rhapsody continues to develop the now-familiar material with a remarkable sensitivity to atmosphere and orchestral colour. As the close approaches, the opening mood returns, and the piece ends quietly on the same chord with which it began.

Listen to Sir Adrian Boult and the London Philharmonic Orchestra’s 1955 performance of George Butterworth’s  A Shropshire Lad, Rhapsody for Full Orchestra on YouTube , here.

It's not British, but...Out of Vienna -Berg, Schulhoff and Webern

Ever since studying Alban Berg’s divine Violin Concerto at school, I have been an admirer of his music – with an exception: the two operas Wozzeck and Lulu. I have never quite managed to get my head around them. Berg is often cited as being the “acceptable face” of serialism, usually building bridges back to tonality, emotional narrative, and recognisable forms.

The six-movement Lyric Suite was completed during early October 1926. It is a definitive example of Berg’s ability to blend late-Romanticism with his personal adaptation of Schoenberg’s serialism. But it is not just a wonderful blend of tonal and atonal material; it also encodes a secret autobiographical programme, first fully revealed by the scholar George Perle. The work is understood to incorporate allusions to his affair with Hanna Fuchs. To this end, Berg used numerology, ciphered initials (A-B-H-F), and many hidden musical quotations. Unsurprisingly, the progress of this quartet covers a wide range: often anguished, sometimes ecstatic, clearly mirroring his clandestine relationship. Before Perle’s scholarship, a listener would hear this Suite as abstract modernist chamber music, with wildly varying emotions, but always bound by a strong structural logic. Understanding the Berg/Fuchs relationship simply adds a human touch: a series of “Intimate Letters” to his lover.

Briefly, Erwin Schulhoff was a Czech-Jewish composer and pianist who fused jazz, Dada, modernism, and late-Romanticism in his opus. He pioneered the treatment of jazz as a serious art form in Europe. He was (unsurprisingly) banned by the Nazi regime as musically degenerate. Tragically, his life and prolific career were cut short in 1942 at the Wülzburg concentration camp.

The Five Pieces for string quartet, WV 68 is full of parody and satire. It is essentially a dance suite which nods back to the Baroque model, with lots of subversive twists. In fact, it is really a pastiche of then-contemporary popular music: the opening Alla Valse viennese that is written in a paradoxical 4/4; a “wonky” Serenata with all strings muted; a wild Alla czeca polka with eccentric rhythmic accents; and the most sensual moment, the “sexy, slinky” Alla Tango milonga. The ‘Suite’ ends with a furious Alla Tarantella. Schulhoff dedicated the work to his colleague Darius Milhaud. It was premiered at the Salzburg International Society for Contemporary Music on 8 August 1924.

Anton Webern is not everyone’s cup of tea. His music is compressed, pointillistic, and often emotionally severe; many listeners find its brevity, silence, and atonality challenging rather than immediately inviting. I have been listening to him on and off for more than half a century, and I am still not sure that I “get it.” This new disc, however, presents a wonderful piece that could be labelled “entry level Webern.” Langsamer Satz (literally “Slow Movement”) emerges from 1905, long before he began adopting Schoenberg’s twelve-tone “method.” It unfolds as a love song written for one Wilhelmine Mörtl, his cousin and later his wife. Stylistically, it owes much more to Brahms, Mahler, and Zemlinsky than to any atonalist. It is conceived in modified sonata form with three themes; there is warmth in the harmonies, expansive melodies, and expressive climaxes. It is so different from his “mature” compositions. This is a heartbreakingly beautiful work.

A different air is breathed in Webern’s freely atonal Five Movements for string quartet, op.5, completed in 1909. By now, he was nearing the end of his apprenticeship with Schoenberg. He stated that the inspiration was the death of his mother in 1906. Here there are no Romantic gestures: these miniatures are compressed to the barest of essentials. It is a fragile sound of isolated notes, half-heard whispers, and sudden explosions of colour. Webern uses a variety of techniques to create his sound world: harmonics, mutes, novel or rarely used instrumental techniques, and silence. The concept of “Perpetual Variation” is inherent, avoiding any sense of repetition or recapitulation in a traditional sense.

Overall, this Quartet is an exercise in gnomic intensity, where every single note carries the weight of an entire movement. Listened to without the preconceptions of tradition, this is a wonderfully nuanced piece of German Expressionism.

Founded in Berlin in 2019, the Leonkoro Quartet achieved a near-unprecedented sweep of the competition circuit in 2022. They won first prize and nine special awards at the Wigmore Hall Competition, followed immediately by top honours at Bordeaux. Mentored by Alfred Brendel and the Artemis Quartet, they have since collected the 2024 Borletti-Buitoni Trust Award and 2026 Gramophone Editor’s Choice for February.

The liner notes, written by Nicolas Derny, give a good introduction to all four quartet. They are printed in English, French, and German. The recording is outstanding.

This new recording by the Leonkoro Quartet brings clarity, character, and emotional integrity to three strikingly different modernist voices (four pieces), offering a satisfying introduction to each of these remarkable works.

Track Listing:
Alban Berg (1885-1935)
Lyric Suite (1926)
Erwin Schulhoff (1894-1942)
Five Pieces for string quartet, WV 68 (1923-24)
Anton Webern (1883-1945)
Five Movements for string quartet, op.5 (1909); Langsamer Satz (1905)
Leonkoro Quartet: Jonathan Schwarz (violin); Emiri Kakiuchi (violin); Mayu Konoe (viola); Lukas Schwarz (cello)
rec. March 2025, Reitstadel, Neumarkt, Germany
Alpha Classics ALPHA 1196

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

William Hurlstone Cello Sonata in D major (c.1899)

William Hurlstone (1876-1906 ) wrote many pieces of chamber music, including his Phantasy String Quartet which won the first W.W. Cobbett Chamber Music Prizes in 1905. The runners up in this competition were Frank Bridge and James Friskin. There was a Piano Quartet published in 1906, a Trio for violin, cello and piano as well as a Wind Quartet for flute, oboe, horn and bassoon.  Hurlstone wrote a number of sonatas – including one each for bassoon, violin, piano solo and cello.

The Cello Sonata in D major was probably composed around 1899, the year after he graduated from the Royal College of Music where Hurlstone had studied piano with Algernon Ashton (1859-1937) and Edward Dannreuther (1844-1905) and composition with Charles Villiers Stanford (1852-1924).

The Sonata is dedicated to the British cellist May Mukle (1880-1963) who ‘by the turn of the century…was fully recognized not only as an outstanding musician, but as one of the most remarkable cellists this country had produced.’ (The Times, 1 March 1963) She often played the Cello Sonata with Hurlstone and continued to promote this work in the years after the composer’s early death.

The premiere of the Sonata was on 5 December 1899 at a British Chamber Music Concert in the recital room attached to the Queen’s Hall. The soloists were Herbert Walenn, cello and Ethel Bauer, piano. May Mukle did not perform the sonata until 29 October 1900, when she was accompanied by William Hurlstone at the Pembroke Hall, West Croydon.

The Cello Sonata is presented in four classically balanced movements, with the scherzo being placed third.  The opening ‘allegro ma non troppo’ begins with a striking theme, displaying ‘neat precision’ which is followed by a more reflective and folk-like melody. This movement is unusual in having the second subject precede the first in the recapitulation. It was a device that Hurlstone would use again in his Trio in G major. The ‘adagio lamentoso’ owes a debt to Brahms and Schumann with its serenity and subtle interplay between the piano and cello. Sometimes there are hints of Elgar. The ‘scherzo’ is quite short: it is characterised by incisive playing in the outer sections, whilst the ‘trio’ is relatively gentle and straightforward. The finale, ‘allegretto moderato’ is in rondo form and is bursting with ‘fresh air and sunshine.’

In 1944, May Mukle sent a letter to the composer’s sister Katherine, who was gathering material for a memorial volume. (William Hurlstone, Musician: Memories and Records by his Friends, London, Cary & Co.,1947)  Mukle wrote: ‘Hurlstone’s Sonata for cello and piano is…one of his best works, and I am very proud to think that it was dedicated to me, and that I had the happiness of playing it with the composer many times, when it was still in manuscript.’

May Mukle has suggested that the work has ‘a freshness than can never be dated.’ Interestingly, Hurlstone suggested to the critic and composer Marion Scott that he felt it was ‘a bit too sugary’ however Scott insisted that this was just a reflection of his innate modesty and being ‘progressively self-critical.’ In fact, William Hurlstone has created a truly amiable work for cello and piano. 

Listen to William Hurlstone’s Cello Sonata in D major on YouTube, here. The performers are Andrew Fuller, cello and Michael Dussek, piano.

With thanks to the English Music Festival, where this essay first appeared. 

"It Won't Do, Me Bhoy": Frank Bridge’s Fond Farewell to Stanford

Further to my short post about composer Frank Bridge’s tribute to Charles Villiers Stanford in the Music and Letters Journal, I found another short testimonial in the 1924 edition of the Royal College of Music Magazine. This included many contributions from eminent musicians who know or studied with him. Stanford was one of the founding professors of the Royal College of Music when it opened in 1882, and he taught composition there from then until his death in 1924. He was one of the architects of the English Musical Renaissance.

The list of contributors reads like a "who’s who" of British music: Alexander Mackenzie, George Dyson, Marion M. Scott, Edgar L. Bainton, Thomas F. Dunhill, Charles Wood, Rebecca Clarke, James Friskin, Ralph Vaughan Williams, Cecil Forsyth, and Cyril Rootham

Frank Bridge studied at the RCM from 1899 to 1903. This puts his "period of more than twenty years" into perspective- he is looking back at his formative student years from the height of his own career. Bridge’s recollection of Stanford’s contempt for the "vulgar" provides a perfect opening to explore the fascinating irony that he - who would eventually embrace a radical, dissonant modernism - still credited his old master’s traditionalist "refining influence" for providing the solid architectural foundation necessary to effectively break the rules.

Bridge wrote: “It may be that the perspective of an early impression is altered by the march of time, or indeed by the present day enthusiasms which inevitably dominate one’s point of view, but after a period of more than twenty years there remains the conviction that in Sir Charles Stanford we all had a master-mind at work. Whether during a composition lesson or at an orchestral rehearsal, one was conscious of the power and sincerity with which he exercised his art. His complete sympathy with the classics and their traditions was an outstanding quality which he happily imparted to all who came under his refining influence.

Who can forget his unfailing contempt for the meretricious and the vulgar, or, faced with a youthful harmonic indiscretion, the softened grin as he would say ‘It won’t do, me bhoy”’! [1]
Frank Bridge R.C.M. Magazine Vol.20/2 1924

As a fitting postscript, Ralph Vaughan Williams echoed this sentiment in the same volume:

"I suppose that all of us were inclined to fight Stanford in our time, but like the argumentative Irish servant, “we knew the master was right all the time.” It may have been galling at the moment to have one’s pet new harmony called “damnably ugly,” but it was just at that moment that we received the best of the many good lessons we had from him.

The intense hatred of anything unlovely, the duty of honest and complete workmanship, the sense of style and of a great tradition behind us—these were the lessons which we learnt from Stanford, lessons which no composer can afford to neglect."

Note:
[1] Bridge’s phonetic transcription of Stanford’s accent ("me bhoy") is a classic trope among Stanford’s pupils (Vaughan Williams and Holst often recalled similar quips). It highlights the blend of intimidation and affection his students felt.

Mist on the Moors: The Piano Music of Reginald Redman

Thirteen years have flown since I evaluated the British Music Society’s British Composer Profiles for MusicWeb International. I remember choosing, at random, the entry for Reginald Redman, a composer I had never previously encountered. I discovered that he had written a piano concerto, a cello concerto, three operas, two ballets, a substantial body of orchestral music, incidental scores, and chamber works. His numerous vocal works drew on West Country themes, alongside humorous songs, Chinese settings, carols, and anthems. He wrote piano pieces and arrangements for small ensembles. It struck me then, that this volume functioned as a kind of “Book of Dreams,” inviting readers to turn its pages and imagine the unheard. I ended my review by wondering what Redman’s music might sound like. I suggested that one day someone would be inspired to find out.

Fortunately, Duncan Honeybourne has come to the rescue with this delightful album of piano miniatures by this forgotten composer. Sadly, there is precious little information about Reginald Redman on the internet or in reference books. The above-mentioned volume manages a single paragraph, and there is no mention whatsoever in Grove Music Online. Philip Scowcroft of this parish came to the rescue with a page long discussion, here. I am also beholden to the liner notes written by the pianist.

Synthesising these texts provides a brief but essential biography. Reginald “Rex” Redman (1892–1972) was one of the BBC’s most accomplished regional conductor‑composers. Trained at the Guildhall School, he joined the Western Region of the BBC founding the West Country Studio Orchestra and West Country Singers. Though small and confined to light repertoire, the orchestra flourished under Redman and successors John Bath and Frank Cantell. As noted above, Redman was a prolific composer: his light orchestral music which included picturesque titles like Marston Court, From a Moorish Village, Pan’s Garden, West Country Suite, and Away on the Hills were especially admired.

This is not an album designed for a continuous sitting. Most of the tracks are short, averaging two or three minutes, the longest being the Three Preludes lasting for more than a quarter of an hour. They tend to blur. Select a title that appeals and enjoy.

The recital opens with the impressionistic Mist on the Moors evoking the landscape of Bodmin or Dartmoor. I am not sure what the mysterious Cornish Legend is referring to. There are so many to choose from. But surely it is a secret well kept. There is a sense of the tricksy about the Arabesque, with its improvisatory freedom. Honeybourne notes that La Nuit seems to be “alternating touches of Chinese music with that of church music”! The Lyric Piece may nod towards Edvard Grieg: it is a charming little number. Once again Redman looks to Asia with his perfumed The Mystic Garden. It is a thoughtful nocturne. The Graceful Dance is just what it says on the tin: slightly Baroque in tone. Hardly a lullaby, the Cradle Song is more complex in mood and technique than its title suggests. A fantastic seascape is created with On the Cornish Coast, which has all the stormy drama of Greville Cooke’s Cormorant Crag. One of the best pieces on this disc. The Great God Pan is evoked in his quieter mood in The Lonely Faun although he becomes a little more playful in the central episode. Once again Gossamer lives up to its title – delicate and ethereal.

Three of these miniatures appeal to children of whatever age! The Lullaby for a Kitten is deliciously sentimental. This is followed by Deep in the Woods which is more about a “Famous Five” adventure rather than a psychodrama. And finally, Children at Play, is pure salon music that conjures games, chases, and hide-and-seek.

In Changing Moods is fun. Moving between whimsy and reflection it is well-wrought with lovely tunes and subtle harmonies. Both In a Gondola and Venetian Barcarolle provide an enchanting picture of ‘La Serenissima.’ They should be played as a “set.”

Reginald Redman’s Song of the Fountain is not as elaborate as Ravel’s Jeux d'eau or Franz Liszt’s Les jeux d'eau à la Villa d'Este: it is more of a little water-feature in a Home Counties garden. The short Humoreske is a piece of two parts: vivacious in its opening and closing and with a lyrical trio section. It is not necessarily ‘humorous’ in the modern sense, but touched with wit, grace, and a gentle eccentricity.

The most substantial work in this disc is the Three Preludes dating from 1918. Honeybourne explains that they remained in manuscript in the Redman Archive at the University of Bristol until he discovered them in 2024. Clearly influenced by the then-contemporary French school and, possibly, Cyril Scott, they are each accompanied by a “descriptive French title and verse…” The first, which makes intensive use of the whole tone scale, evokes the Wind through the Reeds by a “quiet little lake, at night.” The reeds are clearly talking to each other. The second imagines In the Glade of the Will-o’-the-Wisps, once again, using synthetic scales: it has a decidedly impressionistic feel. The final Prelude creates the mood of The Desert at Dawn. Beginning lugubriously, it conjures “Light Streams forth in a supreme ripple – and it is day.” There is no indication where the texts were garnered. The entire cycle is a gem, which demands acceptance into the repertoire.

The final tracks present two discrete versions of the Welsh folksong 'Ar Hyd y Nos'– All Through the Night. The liner notes explain that prior to 1936 the West Country Studio Orchestra served both Welsh and West Country audiences. The first iteration, which is undated, was conceived as a signature tune for the station. Characteristically democratic, Redman wove together two melodies - 'All Through the Night' and the old West Country tune, 'Admiral Benbow.' Aged seventy-eight, Redman decided to revisit his earlier effort, adding a brief Prelude and Postlude. It is a touching nod to his long-standing affection for Wales and the West.

It should be noted that those who choose to download or stream can access additional tracks including At the Opera (1935) and In Amberley Vale (1925)

British pianist Duncan Honeybourne is noted for his deep sympathy with British and Irish repertoire and his championship of neglected music. He has explored a wide range of “forgotten” composers including Greville Cooke, Geoff Cummings-Knight, Archy Rosenthal, and William Baines.

This new disc gives long‑neglected Reginald Redman a toehold in the recorded legacy. These miniatures, by turns atmospheric, whimsical, and deeply felt are played with characteristic warmth, sincerity, and imagination.

Track Listing:

Reginald Redman (1892-1972)
Mist on the Moors (1926)
A Cornish Legend (1922)
Arabesque (1923)
La Nuit (1924)
Lyric Piece (1924)
The Mystic Garden (1924)
Graceful Dance (1924)
Cradle Song (1924)
On the Cornish Coast (1924)
The Lonely Faun (1926)
Gossamer (1922)
Lullaby for a Kitten (n.d.)
Deep in the Woods (n.d.)
Children at Play (1924)
In Changing Moods (1924)
In a Gondola (1924)
Venetian Barcarolle (1924)
Prelude I Vent à travers les Roseaux (Wind through the Reeds) (1918)
Prelude II Dans la Clairière des Esprits Follets (In the Glade of the Will-o’-the-Wisps) (1918)
Prelude III Le D sert au Point du Jour (The Desert at Dawn) (1918)
Song of the Fountain (1924)
Humoreske (1927)
All Through the Night (earlier version) (n.d.) All Through the Night (later version) (1970)

Duncan Honeybourne (piano)
rec. 24 September 2025, Wyastone Concert Hall, Monmouth
Heritage HTGCD 121

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

Frank Bridge: An Appreciation of Sir Charles Villiers Stanford

How does a musical revolutionary remember a traditionalist? In July 1924, a few months after the death of Sir Charles Villiers Stanford, his former pupil Frank Bridge offered a surprising answer.

On the death of the elder composer on 29 March 1924, many tributes were written about him. A selection by his former pupils were included in the journal Music & Letters (July 1924). These included words by Ralph Vaughan Williams, George Dyson, Ivor Gurney, Herbert Howells, and Frank Bridge.

Frank Bridge (1879-1941) was a pivotal figure in early 20th-century British music, bridging the gap between Victorian tradition and modernism. A competent violist and conductor, his deep understanding of string instruments infused his chamber music, such as the evocative piano trios and string quartets. While his early works like the orchestral The Sea radiated late-Romantic warmth, the distress of World War I pushed him toward a more radical, expressionistic style. He became the link between Victorian/Edwardian tradition and the modernism of his own pupil, Benjamin Britten.

In 1899, Frank Bridge had entered the Royal College of Music on a scholarship, where he fell under the rigorous tutelage of Sir Charles Villiers Stanford. Stanford, a titan of British pedagogy, emphasised structural integrity and Brahmsian discipline. While Bridge eventually moved toward a more radical, modernist language, his time with Stanford provided the solid technical foundation - particularly in counterpoint and orchestration - that defined his early mastery. Their relationship was a classic blend of traditional craftsmanship meeting an evolving, innovative spirit. In his tribute, Bridge reflected on the "bruising" but vital lessons he received:

"THAT from tuition grounded with staunch belief upon the classics so many composition pupils should have achieved distinction on self-willed paths, is a noteworthy testimony to the soundness of his training and guidance. An extraordinary versatility and interest in all forms of musical art enabled him to solve their problems with facility and shrewd insight. He possessed a continuous inspiration of technical resources with which lie administered first-aid. His firm insistence that we should not embark on an orchestral score which required so-called " extra " instruments may perhaps have been a relic of his own youthful student days abroad. It was undoubtedly a deep-rooted conviction, and his own works prove how unconcerned he was with the mere exploitation of instrumental technique. On one occasion a song with orchestra evoked a severe lecture, and although I recall feeling rather bruised, the experience of its public performance made me realise the truth of his criticism."

Music & Letters July 1924, p.195f

Robert Farnon: Holiday Flight

I was always envious of my aunt who had flown out to Mallorca (or as we called it then Majorca) in the late 1950s with her girlfriend. Although tourism had begun in the 1920s and 1930s, it was not until the post-Second World War era that mass British holidaymaking began there. Back then, boarding a Vickers Viscount or a de Havilland Comet was a sophisticated ritual, involving Sunday best suits and the hum of turboprops. Greater prosperity and cheaper air travel made Mallorca a mainstream destination, with visitors enjoying the sun, beaches, and easy-going life. And then, of course, there was the cheap booze.

Robert Farnon’s miniature Holiday Flight epitomises this social shift. It was composed around 1958 during the post-war golden age of British light music. It reflects the optimism and glamour of commercial air travel during this period. Enthusiastically, it presents flying as adventurous, novel, and stylish. It is a quintessential example of light orchestral writing that distils Farnon’s melodic appeal and cinematic sweep into a small, evocative piece that functions like a musical postcard, capturing mood and imagery with effortless clarity.

Although there is some musical onomatopoeia in this piece, it is more a celebration of the possibility of air travel rather than a actual description. Farnon avoids the literal roar of engines, choosing instead to replicate the feeling of soaring above a layer of stratocumulus clouds. It opens mid-flight rather than taking off or landing. The mood is buoyant and propulsive, with sweeping strings, but sometimes pizzicato, smart woodwind figures and muted brass. Yet in the concluding bars there is a definite sense that the plane is landing, with all the pleasure of a sun-soaked holiday lying ahead.

My only memento of my aunt’s holiday is a small drum with a picture of a toreador on it, a pair of castanets and a pack of Spanish stamps (these last sadly long disappeared.) These mementos were (for me) the exotic spoils of a new era, brought back from a world that felt impossibly far from 1950s Glasgow. It would be some fifty years later that I would arrive at Palma, Mallorca, on board a cruise ship.

Listen to Robert Farnon’s Holiday Flight on YouTube, here. The composer is conducting the London Symphony Orchestra.