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.

 

Ralph Vaughan Williams: Rise, Heart

I was introduced to Ralph Vaughan Williams’s Five Mystical Songs through the legendary recording by John Shirley-Quirk, with the King’s College Choir and English Chamber Orchestra under David Willcocks (HMV ASD 2458). This has been my go-to version since the early 1970s, and I suspect that will not change. It successfully captures the grand scale of the work’s premiere at Worcester Cathedral on 14 September 1911, though RVW noted the chorus was ad lib.

Whilst there have been arrangements for wind ensemble and for solo piano accompaniment, this new Albion disc features the c.1925 arrangement for baritone, piano and string quintet. This is ideally suited for small ensembles, church performances, or intimate recitals.

Bearing in mind that RVW was not a “man of faith” in the traditional sense, but a self-described “cheerful agnostic,” the ethos of Five Mystical Songs is best understood as a spiritual journey. But it is important to add that he was deeply sympathetic to Christian liturgy, theology, and devotional language. The “cycle” becomes the point where three trajectories meet: the world of personal faith, George Herbert’s luminous poetry, and the composer’s instinctive English musical pastoralism. This is not a conventional song cycle but a bit like a private devotional journal set to music. Herbert’s poetry here feels less mystical than numinous, with an emphasis on human tenderness, vulnerability, and wonder. It is Christianity seen through the lens of the English countryside, where the sacred and the pastoral breathe the same air.

Roderick Williams, the Sacconi Quartet, Levi Andreassen, double bass, and pianist William Vann bring a warmth and instrumental colour that far exceeds the piano-only edition. It is a beautiful, deeply felt account.

In 1905 RVW published two settings of poems by Christina Rossetti. The melancholic When I am Dead, My Dearest considers an acceptance of death’s calm, inviting remembrance or forgetting, both without sorrow. Equally melancholic both in words and music is Dreamland where the poet has chosen a twilight journey into eternal rest, beyond sorrow or waking. Both have been recorded on Albion Records (ALBCD002) but this is the first recording with “a male protagonist.” They are both heartbreakingly lovely.

The liner notes explain that all eighty-one of Vaughan Williams folksongs have been issued on the Albion label (ALBCD042-45). For the present disc Roderick Williams has chosen eight of these and arranged them for string quartet. I think that they would make an effective song cycle, although there is no obvious connecting theme. The singer expresses the hope that these will provide a strong introduction to RVW’s folksongs.

Willow-Wood is a cantata based on four poems from Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s sonnet sequence The House of Life. It was composed in 1903, around the same time as his famous Silent Noon. The cantata was premiered at the St James’s Hall, London on 12 March of that year, by J. Campbell McInnes, baritone, and Evlyn Howard-Jones, piano.

In Rossetti’s poems, the ‘Wood’ is an imaginary landscape where Love and Loss meet. Contemporary critics felt the songs themselves were seen as “turbulent, shadowy, and melancholy.” Some suggested that the cantata needed an orchestra, as “its complexities and its breadth seem to demand an orchestral medium.”   The composer duly orchestrated it for a performance in 1909, adding a wordless female chorus. RVW himself was not happy with the final iteration, scrawling in his copy of the vocal score, “first (and last) performance…complete flop.” 

The programme notes pose the question: Does the cantata tell a story? It concludes that Willow-Wood is “a song of love and grief, love lost and love remembered. Poetry stands precedent over narrative and finds further expression in music.”

Whether this challenging work will ever become ‘popular’ is arguable. I find it just a touch too melancholy. That said, Roderick Williams champions its wide ranging and demanding vocal part with conviction.

The booklet text has been compiled by John Francis and provides clear information about the songs. The texts are printed. Resumes of the performers have been included. The booklet is beautifully illustrated, and the cover features a detail from the Ralph Vaughan Williams memorial window at All Saints, Down Ampney.

This is a deeply moving exploration of Vaughan Williams’ more intimate side, where Roderick Williams brings a rare, human warmth to both the well-loved Herbert settings and the shadowy rarities of Rossetti.

Contents
Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958)

Five Mystical Songs (1911) (arranged by Vaughan Williams for baritone, piano and string quintet): Easter; I Got Me Flowers; Love Bade Me Welcome; The Call; Antiphon.
Songs for voice and piano: When I am Dead, My Dearest (1903); Dreamland (1905)
Folk Song arrangements (Vaughan Williams’s piano accompaniments adapted
for string quartet by Roderick Williams): Captain Grant; The Saucy Bold Robber; She’s Like the Swallow; Proud Nancy; Barbara Ellen; The Brewer; O Who is That That Raps at My Window; Harry the Tailor
Willow-Wood (1903, revised 1909) for baritone and piano.
Roderick Williams (baritone); Sacconi Quartet, Levi Andreassen (double bass), William Vann (piano)
rec. 16-18 July 2025, St George’s Headstone, London 

Albion Records ALBCD 070

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

Percy Whitlock: Holiday Suite (1939)

Percy Whitlock’s Holiday Suite (1939) is one of my favourite pieces of ‘light music.’ The titles of its three movements express the sentiment that surrounds the thoughts of a holiday by the sea in England (or Scotland, Wales, and Ulster.) It is an epitome of much that has passed into history as people head to Benidorm and Tenerife. However, days at Bournemouth, Morecambe and Swanage will always be with us. And if people enjoy the simpler pleasures of a British seaside holiday, this suite will serve as a reminder of what is precious in our psyche. This may be strong words for a slight work – but this is what ‘light’ music is about – approachability. 

A friend of mine who does not claim to understand or appreciate the complexities of Bartok String Quartets or the transcendental piano studies of Franz Liszt finds this Holiday Suite full of evocative images. And these are images of her holidays too. Memories of her girlhood at Scarborough and Bridlington are evoked in these three movements. And who is to say that Max Jaffa (The Spa, Scarborough) is not as important to aesthetic enjoyment as Yehudi Menuhin or Nigel Kennedy? Certainly, not these gentlemen! 

Three movements and one enigma. The suite opens with a fine Waltz: ‘In the Ballroom.’ This is in the spirit of so many similar pieces by Eric Coates – a fine English Dance. We feel that at times it is a restrained movement. Is it a tea dance? But then the orchestra breaks out into a fine sweep, which along with the saxophones leads back into a typical lilting swing. Then a short codetta and off into the next eight! I can so easily see a pre-war audience moving gracefully around the ballroom. The ‘Ballroom’ in the title is the one behind the Bournemouth Pavilion Concert Hall.

The second is a delightful polka that manages to incorporate the good old English tune ‘Cherry Ripe.’ This had been done already by Frank Bridge in one of his string orchestra pieces and by Eric Coates in his London Suite. Whitlock would have known both these works. It is the composer’s delightful sense of humour that gave this movement its back to front title – ‘Spade and Bucket’ Polka. It is a well-written miniature, which certainly evokes thoughts of major excavations on the beach!

The last movement is entitled quite simply, ‘Civic March.’ Yet there is an enigma here. The Performing Rights Society has this listed as the ‘Picnic March.’ The score and the parts all have the current title of ‘Civic March.’ I spoke with the Whitlock expert Malcolm Riley about this discrepancy, and he is of the opinion that the official title links it in nicely to the ‘municipal’ – the ballroom and the Pavilion belonging to the town council. I have listened to this march a number of times and I am unable to imagine processions of councillors and the newly made Mayor and civil dignitaries and their partners.

Personally? I’m not buying it. The music is too bright and breezy. There is an open-air quality to this tune. It is easier to imagine the Famous Five and Timmy the dog, off on a picnic with their ginger beer and jam sandwiches: it fits in with the idea of ‘being at the seaside.’ The last thing I would want to do as a child is watch old fogeys dressed up in outdated clothes shamble along the High Street! Nevertheless, I will defer, for scholarships sake and concede that this last movement is a bright and carefree ‘civic’ march. Humph.

Listen to Whitlock’s Holiday Suite on YouTube, here.  The RTÉ Concert Orchestra Conductor: Gavin Sutherland and it appears on Marco Polo 8.225162.

Repost from 1 November 2008 with edits and new link.

 

Reflections : Piano Quartets by Johannes Brahms and Hans Gál

Werther was the tragic hero of Goethe’s Die Leiden des jungen Werthers (1774) who became a crucial figure in German cultural lore. He was a gifted and sensitive young man who was consumed by an impossible love for Charlotte. This anguish made him into a symbol of the of Sturm und Drang spirit and serves as a warning about what can happen when feelings run wild.

Speaking about his Piano Quartet No.3 in C minor, op.60, Brahms told his publisher Simrock, that the score should feature a picture of a man with a pistol pointed at his head, referencing Goethe’s book. This would have signalled the present quartet's themes of unrequited love and despair. Simrock did not take him up on this suggestion.

When Brahms began initial sketches for his three piano quartets in 1855, he was deeply in love with Clara Schumann, wife of Robert, who at that time was institutionalised in an insane asylum. Instead of Werther’s pistol shots, the writing of this music was a catharsis for his mental turmoil. Shortly after Robert’s death in 1856, he found another distraction, this time with Agathe von Siebold. The quartet was put to one side, remaining in a drawer for nearly twenty years (there was some revision) before emerging in 1875.

The opening movement begins starkly before the strings introduce a ‘sighing’ motif often associated with Clara, setting the tone for a narrative of tension and release throughout this Allegro non troppo. An appealing second theme in E‑flat major offers warmth, yet the movement never fully escapes its C‑minor gravity. An angry and intense Scherzo Allegro follows; instead of a formal trio, Brahms inserts a brief, unsettled episode. The Andante, the emotional heart, begins with a beautiful long cello melody that offers a measure of consolation. It is thought to be a “farewell to Clara,” and is tenderly played here. The Finale is a turbulent Allegro comodo, its agitated figures driven forward until they finally gain a hard‑won, unsentimental C‑major close. Any performance must recognise the sense of tragedy that overshadows this Piano Quartet. I feel that Confringo Klavierquartett get this mood exactly right.

Hans Gál was an Austrian‑British composer, teacher and scholar who was forced to flee from Austria in 1938. He rebuilt his career in Britain, producing symphonies, chamber works, and operas defined by a rare blend of elegance and contrapuntal wit.

The Piano Quartet in A major was written in 1926 for the pianist Paul Wittgenstein who had lost his right arm during the First World War. The piano writing is so complex it successfully creates the illusion of two hands. Certainly, Wittgenstein’s left hand had its work cut out. At a time when composers were experimenting with various forms of modernism, Gál uses what might be regarded as old-fashioned tonal clarity.

Unfolding across four well balanced movements, the Quartet is defined by appealing melodies and formal balance. The opening Vivace ma non troppo nods unapologetically to Brahms. It is optimistic, but occasionally melancholy, presenting contrasting themes and a vivid development. A buoyant Scherzo, Presto e leggiero possesses a will o’ the wisp fleetingness. Central to this Quartet is the poignant, introspective Adagio, dolce ed espressivo using expansive tunes supported by a subtle accompaniment. The Quartet concludes with a mercurial Molto vivace which is Bartókian in its rhythmic bite. The middle section is brooding, before an exhilarating and witty build up to the final pages.

There have been at least two other recordings of Hans Gál’s Piano Quartet in A major (CPO 555 276-2),  reviewed here, here, and here. The other is Left Hand Legacy Vol.1: Chamber Music Written for Paul Wittgenstein (COBRA0087) reviewed, here.

Confringo Klavierquartett was formed by musicians from Germany, Serbia, and South Korea during their studies in Berlin and Hanover. The Quartet shares a strong interest in Classical, Romantic, and Contemporary repertoire. They have earned significant recognition, including the 2024 Hans Gál Prize and a German Music Competition scholarship.

The liner notes by Florian Gierring give a good introduction to the two important works featured on this disc. Biographical details of the ensemble are included. The booklet is printed in English and German.

This is a splendid debut performance by Confringo Klavierquartett. Both Quartets are performed with enthusiasm and self-assurance. They reflect Brahms’s darker shadows and Gál’s intricate, lyrical wit.

Track Listing:
Johannes Brahms (1833-97)
Piano Quartet No.3 in C minor, op.60 (1855-75)
Hans Gál (1890-1987)
Piano Quartet in A major (1926)
Confringo Klavierquartett: Eun Che Kim (violin), Philipp Sussmann (viola), Irena Josifoska (cello), Viktor Soos (piano).
rec. 18-20 April 2025, SWR Studio Kaiserslautern, Germany.
Reflections Genuin GEN26954

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

John Addison and Three Men in a Boat (1956)

One of my favourite films from “back in the day” is Three Men in a Boat, made seventy years ago this year. This realisation of Jerome K. Jerome’s Thames travelogue remains a timeless observation of human fallibility. This “comedy of errors” unfolds against the idyllic scenery of the river, which provides a golden-hued backdrop to the trio’s misadventures. Several elements combine to make this film a masterpiece: the performance by the three stars, the sophisticated, yet jaunty score by composer John Addison and the evocative riverside setting. It stands as a tribute to the British art at carrying on regardless.

The English writer Jerome K. Jerome was born in Walsall, West Midlands on 2 May 1859. Where remembered today, it is for his engaging conversational style that bridged Victorian sensibilities and a more modern, lightly ironic wit. Despite never again achieving the runaway success of Three Men in a Boat, he continued to write until his death in 1927. His output included plays, short stories, essays, and non-fiction as well as Three Men on a Bummel, the sequel to the present title.

The ‘technicolor’ film adaption was directed by English film maker Ken Annakin, with the screenplay developed by Hubert Gregg and Vernon Harris. The three eponymous stars were the suave Laurence Harvey as George, the moustachioed Jimmy Edwards playing Harris and David Tomlinson, who was later to play Mr Banks in Mary  Poppins, as Jerome “J.” Supporting cast included Shirley Eaton (some eight years before her appearance as a Bond Girl in Goldfinger), Jill Ireland, Robertson Hare, and Esme Cannon.

The plot is simple: three Victorian gentlemen, convinced they are suffering from various psychosomatic illnesses brought on by "overwork," decide that a rowing trip up the River Thames is the only cure. Accompanied by their sceptical fox terrier, Montmorency, they set off on a journey that is about relaxation but quickly descends into a series of alluring disasters.

The film delights in everyday incompetence: simple tasks become epic trials, tempers fray beneath Victorian politeness, and Montmorency observes it all with silent disdain. The entire movie celebrates the river’s quirks and reminds us that holidays go awry - and those mishaps become the memories we cherish most.

Sadly, the critic of The Monthly Film Bulletin was unimpressed: he wrote that "Jimmy Edwards and David Tomlinson should have been ideally cast in Jerome's delightful comedy. Unfortunately, the curious adaptation and clumsy handling have effectively destroyed most of the charm and humour of the original book. The slapstick is crude and uninventive.”

John Addison (1920–1998) was a prolific British composer recalled for his versatile, approachable style across film and concert hall. After serving in the 23rd Hussars during WWII, he studied at the Royal College of Music, later returning as a Professor of Composition.

He gained fame as the "Angry Young Man’s Composer," scoring classics like John Osborne’s play The Entertainer. His diverse portfolio includes the Oscar-winning Tom Jones (1963), the iconic TV series Murder, She Wrote theme and military epics such as Reach for the Sky. Of significant importance are his concert works which include the ballet score Carte Blanche, a Trumpet Concerto, and a Partita for string orchestra. Addison’s music, whether for the recital room or for the screen, is always approachable and well-crafted.

The score for the 1956 Three Men in a Boat fuses his Addison’s conservatory polish with a distinctly British lightness. Rather than the grand orchestral sweep typical of 1950s adventure or romantic films, he writes with chamber-like clarity, letting cheerful woodwinds propel the trio’s mishaps while serene pastoral strings evoke the Thames. His mock‑heroic brass elevates trivial triumphs into comic spectacle, perfectly matching the story’s Victorian self‑importance. Avoiding cartoonish literalism, Addison offers a witty, sophisticated commentary on the action. The score reveals his mastery of “light” music, crafted with the same rigour as his concert works.

Watch the opening and closing credits of Three Men in a Boat on YouTube, here.

 

Karajan Conducts Gustav Holst and Richard Strauss

This new release from Gramola couples two important orchestral works of the 20th century. The recordings date from the time when Herbert von Karajan was making his ‘Golden Era’ recordings, with the Wiener Philharmoniker, in the early 1960s. Originally issued on the Decca label under the auspices of celebrated producers John Culshaw (Holst) and Erik Smith (Strauss) they have withstood the test of time. The quality of sound of both is outstanding, bearing in mind that they are now two-thirds of a century old.

Straight away, the listener will be struck by the menacing opening of Mars, brutal and insistent; the Vienna brass producing a disturbing ‘snarl’ throughout. My touchstone in The Planets is Venus, and here Karajan creates a suitably numinous account which stresses its serenity. Mercury is often described as “quicksilver,” an adjective entirely appropriate here. One contemporary reviewer felt that the celesta was slightly out of tune with the orchestra. Maybe. It remains a sparkling performance.

Like other critics I wondered how Karajan would approach the quintessentially English sound of Jupiter. In fact, he provides a broad sweep in the “trio” section, whilst avoiding any hint of sentimentality. The lead up to that ‘big tune’ is a riot of sound.

Saturn is a remorseless march, dark and lugubrious relieved only by occasional flashes of light. The anvils at the climax are particularly effective. One commentator perfectly summed up the movement by explaining that the Bringer of Old Age, “is a creaky giant, wheezy and weary, but still an eminent presence when roused.”  Uranus gets a “rollicking” performance: the brass fanfare at the beginning is genuinely scary. In Neptune, Karajan creates pure mystery. The wordless female voices (the Vienna State Opera Chorus) sustain a perfectly eerie mood as they fade away into a haunting and desolate silence.

I first came to this masterpiece through Steinberg and the Boston Symphony Orchestra on Deutsche Grammophon: this was the LP that lived in the school music-room library. Nowadays, I would favour a British conductor when listening to The Planets. This may be Mark Elder and the Hallé on Hyperion (with Colin Matthews’s Pluto, which some listeners still resist), or Adrian Boult’s 1979 EMI recording.

So why turn to Karajan? For me, his performance of The Planets treats the whole suite as one vast, surging arc of cinematic colour and momentum, the movements flowing into each other with a scale and inevitability that few conductors manage.

I do not normally define “best” when it comes to musicians, but I accept that Herbert von Karajan was one of the last century’s great interpreters of Richard Strauss. Karajan made him sound big, beautiful, thrilling, and moving. He controlled the orchestra, so everything felt smooth, powerful, and perfectly timed. It is the kind of playing that sweeps people along even if they do not know a note of Strauss.

An understanding of the poem by Alexander Ritter is not essential to appreciating the symphonic poem Death and Transfiguration, composed in 1889. In fact, Ritter wrote the text after the score was complete. The basic idea is that of a “lonely and ailing” man fighting against his inevitable death, while recalling incidents from his past life. There is no suggestion that Strauss had any specific individual in mind. More likely he was reflecting about the “eternal suffering” of humanity. The work is divided into four sections: The sick man on his deathbed, The battle between life and death, The moment of death and, finally, Transfiguration. Most people will sympathise with at least part of the “programme” – certainly as they grow older. But it is possible to hear this as absolute music: a purely musical drama without reference to any programme, whose strength lies in its thematic transformation, orchestral colour, and long‑spanned architecture.

Karajan’s account presents two sides of the piece. There is a “shattering intensity” inherent in the struggle between life and death, but also a gentler, more sensitive side in the childhood memories and the apotheosis. Surely the interpretation of these closing bars is heartbreakingly beautiful.

Whether or not Karajan's 1960 recording with the Wiener Philharmoniker is a “definitive” version of Death and Transfiguration is not something I wish to comment on. I should also note that I have not heard his 1983 recording with the Berlin Philharmoniker. There are dozens of other recordings: Reiner, Böhm, Kempe, and Krauss among them. An exploration of all these is a full-time occupation.

This CD is a true classic, capturing a legendary conductor and orchestra at the height of their powers; if you want to hear these two epic masterworks played with maximum drama and rich, golden sound, this is the recording to own. All this is perfectly preserved by this early stereo recording.

Track Listing:
Gustav Holst (1874-1934)
The Planets, op.32 (1914-16)
Richard Strauss (1864-1949)
Death and Transfiguration (Tod und Verklärung) (1889)
Wiener Philharmoniker/Herbert von Karajan
rec. September 1961 (Holst); June 1960 (Strauss) Sofiensaal, Vienna, Austria
Gramola 92008

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

William Alwyn: Twelve Preludes for Piano (1958)

The first thing to consider is whether it is right that these twelve preludes should be played as a cycle or whether they can be excerpted. We need only think of Rachmaninov or perhaps Scriabin to see that recitalists often pick several 'preludes' from the various sets these composers wrote. The same could be said of Bach and Chopin. It is, perhaps, with the two books of Preludes written by Debussy that we have to compare William Alwyn's works. Although not exclusively so, with the exception of one or two encore pieces such as the 'Girl with Flaxen Hair' recitals and CDs tend to present Book 1 or Book 2 in their entirety.

I think that, although the Preludes by Alwyn are mostly individually self-sufficient, they are served best by being played together. Yet in some ways this is strange; there is no obvious thematic thread running through these pieces. In fact, the very opposite is the case. Alwyn decided to use very short note groups as the basis of these pieces. These are closely related to key centres and all the preludes have an allocated key signature. Yet he invented a new note group for each of the dozen pieces. In spite of this diversity, it is best to take these dozen preludes at a sitting. Each number is roughly two minutes long, the entire works lasting just under half an hour.

The first prelude is quiet and reflective and is economical in its use of material. It is played very quietly with just a little frisson in the middle section. There is a strange hardness of tone in some of the repeated notes - quite a disturbing element within what is a seemingly untroubled mood. The piece ends as quietly as it began.

The second opens dramatically - as implied in the instruction 'Allegro drammatico.' There is much repeated figuration here giving the impression of turbulence. After an impressive flourish the music dies down and collapses. There are quiet, slow repeated chords and a simplification of the texture. This is a strange piece really, with the two sections rather unbalanced.

The next prelude, a 'Molto Semplice' presents music of seeming innocence. It is truly lovely music that is perfectly balanced in all its parts. Yet, hidden in the innocence there is a touch of melancholy.

The fourth prelude is a study - William Alwyn stated it was composed to display rapid finger technique. There is at times a jazzy feeling here - or is it perhaps even boogie-woogie? The second section is much quieter and is rhythmically blurred with much use being made of the pedal. The melody is given in octaves towards the conclusion and is followed by a quicksilver coda. An exceptionally fine piece technically.

The New Zealand pianist Richard Farrell was the dedicatee of the fifth prelude. In fact, it was composed just a few days after his death in a motorcycle accident. This is a lovely piece that has much depth and feeling to it. In some ways it appears almost too simple: it is not until after a couple of hearings that its subtleties begin to become evident. There are some clever modulations and not a few bittersweet harmonic clashes. The latter part of the prelude makes use of impressive chordal writing that adds drama. However, in strange contradistinction some of the writing is almost reminiscent of café piano style. The overall impression is of balance and near perfection.

The sixth prelude is another study. It is written to display rapid chords in progression. It certainly comes as quite a contrast to the preceding elegy. It is rhythmically strong sounding rather like Scriabin or perhaps even Rachmaninov in places but is none the worse for that. It is one of the best of these preludes. The piece closes with a good coda and a false ending which gives the listener a little jolt.

The seventh prelude is played quietly and sounds like distant bells. It is meditative and has all the appearance of a very straightforward piece. This simplicity is misleading. It is a difficult piece to play well. Here are more than just hints of Debussy's 'underwater cathedral' in these pages. There is a slight crescendo in the middle section before the work closes as it began.

William Alwyn states that the eighth prelude is 'pastoral' in character. This is an overstatement - with little to justify this description. The tempo marking is 'grazioso et delicato,' however even is unjustified. There are several felicitous touches in this prelude, but the overall impression is that the composer has lost the plot a bit. Some of this music is a little makeweight.

The ninth prelude also suffers from a lack of formal principle. It is as if the composer has lost his concentration. The opening of the piece is 'elusive' and becomes a touch monotonous during the first section. Once again there are hints of Debussy here. Suddenly the character changes and the prelude ends with glissando like scales. A very unbalanced piece.

The tenth prelude is an ‘Allegretto leggiero:’ once again this is a study in delicacy of touch. It is a pleasing number that is extremely difficult to keep under control and to maintain a consistency of touch. However, some of this prelude is anything but delicate - there is some intensity here that requires firm playing. The piece finishes quietly.

The penultimate prelude is composed on three notes - Db, Eb and F. This is the ultimate in musical economy. Yet with this limited material Alwyn creates a misty magical atmosphere. This is an extremely beautiful piece even if it is short.

The final piece, an ‘Allegro’ brings the cycle to a triumphant close. It opens with a toccata-like figuration that continues, under various guises to permeate the work. Much of the sound of this prelude reminds the listener of water - from mere ripples to crashing waves. The 'big' tune is given in the bass with the toccata theme in the treble clef. There are memories here of Alwyn’s Magic Island Prelude and perhaps the Third Symphony. A big powerful build up is followed by a sudden diminuendo. An enigmatic coda followed by a huge display of chords brings the work to a conclusion.

Although there are a few weak points where the composer seems to have lost his way, the vast majority of these preludes are superb in their form, their melodic and harmonic structure and their relationship to each other. These Twelve Preludes must be taken at a sitting. Although they are not thematically related there is a unity about them that only becomes obvious when they are heard together. It is possible to hear the “horns of elf land” in these pieces.

This cycle of Preludes will never become truly popular; they are very subtle and sophisticated (in a positive way). Yet they deserve to be listened to, played and studied. They are one of the finest achievements in the literature of the second half of twentieth century piano music. They are as good as any work that was produced for the piano in the 1950s and much better than most.

George Dyson: Voluntary in D major for organ.

Best remembered for his grand choral canvases, Sir George Dyson’s modest output for the organ reveals a composer of remarkable poise and practical talent.

George Dyson was born on 28 May 1883 in Halifax, Yorkshire, into a family where music was part of daily life. In 1900 he won an open scholarship to the Royal College of Music, studying composition under Charles Villiers Stanford, and four years later he secured the Mendelssohn Scholarship, which allowed him to travel through Italy, Austria, and Germany and encounter leading composers such as Richard Strauss. His early professional life combined practical musicianship and teaching: he served first as an assistant organist and later as director of music at the Royal Naval College, Osborne, before moving into school posts at Marlborough College. During the First World War he served as a grenadier officer and became known for writing a widely circulated training manual on grenade warfare, though he was eventually invalided home suffering from shell shock. In the interwar years Dyson established himself as a distinguished schoolmaster and lecturer, holding influential positions at Rugby, Wellington, and Winchester. His administrative gifts were recognised in 1938 when he became Director of the Royal College of Music - the first former student to do so - where he introduced significant financial and organisational reforms. He steered the institution through the upheavals of the Second World War, preserving both its stability and its academic standards.

As a composer, Dyson worked in a firmly late‑Romantic idiom shaped by the legacy of Parry and Stanford. Among his most notable works are The Canterbury Pilgrims, Nebuchadnezzar, and the Symphony in G. He died in Winchester on 28 September 1964, leaving behind a body of music that fell into neglect for a time but has since enjoyed a welcome revival.

Though his organ output is modest, it is finely made: six late works, including a Prelude and Postlude, the Fantasia, and Ground Bass, and twelve Psalm‑tune variations in three books, alongside an unpublished youthful Sonata. These reveal Dyson’s characteristic clarity, warmth, and contrapuntal poise, offering organists repertoire that is approachable yet rewarding.

The Voluntary in D was written for An Album of Praise, published by Oxford University Press in 1958. This included works by Gordon Jacob, Flor Peeters, Peter Hurford, Norman Gilbert, and Healey Willan. Paul Spicer, in his study of the composer, has said they were “designed as organ voluntary repertoire for the average organist.” However, none of them are a cinch.

Ideally, the present Voluntary was written for a large organ with at least three manuals with pedals and was designed as a recessional voluntary for a cathedral or large parish church.

This is a powerful, dynamic piece that is more rhapsodic than strictly formal. It develops from a fanfare motive played on the Great organ at the start. Ostensibly composed in D major, the work moves through a series of modulations in the contrasting sections often including changes between manuals. The piece concludes with a loud ‘largamente’ chorale-like succession of chords.

Apart from the suggestion of which of the three manuals ought to be used, Dyson gives no indication of his preferred registration. Although the score does not call for reed stops, they would certainly be effective.

Despite the rhapsodic nature of the Voluntary, there is no sense that it is sprawling or lacking in compositional discipline. Stylistically, it shows little evidence of Dyson’s ‘pastoral’ style which he used sparingly. Rather, it is largely tonal, lyrical, and grounded in the English choral‑cathedral tradition.

Listen to Daniel Cook playing George Dyson’s Voluntary in D on YouTube, here. The piece is played on the magnificent organ in St Mary Redcliffe, Bristol. This was included on “The Complete Organ Works of George Dyson” (Priory PRCD 1136, 2014).