C. B. Rees emerged as a distinctive British voice in mid‑20th‑century musical criticism, combining scholarly insight with an accessible, unpretentious style. Active from the mid‑1940s, he wrote for Penguin Music Magazine and became widely known for his elegant, informative sleeve notes that accompanied many major classical LP releases throughout the 1950s and 1960s. His work helped shape how post‑war British listeners encountered composers from Franck and Schumann to Tchaikovsky and Rimsky‑Korsakov. Though not as publicly prominent as some contemporaries, Rees played a quiet but influential role in Britain’s classical music environment, bridging musicology and journalism with clarity, curiosity, and a deep respect for performers and repertoire. The following essay is easy going and warm hearted:
"Yes, I think you would say, a certain elegance. There is a sense of easy, natural immaculateness. Your eye notices the bowtie, the brushed, broad-brimmed hat, the smart, tasteful waistcoat, the gold-topped cane that belonged to "Bumps" Greenbaum, the slow, friendly, slightly amused quizzing of the company. Then there is the smiling inquiry as to the possible whereabouts of a friend who is an hour, or possibly a day, late for the appointment. A quick offer of hospitality, a sly comment on some topical stupidity or a bizarre twist in the comedy of living, and you will have met, although you will not yet know, Alan Rawsthorne.
Even a short conversation gives
you an atmosphere of intelligence, the intimation of a mind shrewdly observing,
quietly thinking, running smoothly with no distracting noises of gear changing.
He does not throw his opinions at you; he has plenty. They slide quickly from
his brain, interrupted only by an infectious chuckle that, agitating his
shoulders, goes twinkling away through his candid blue eyes. He joins the company
on rubber soled unobtrusiveness. He leaves it without disturbance of the
congenial atmosphere.
You may be surprised to know that
he was born in Lancashire and, therefore, expect him to bang on the table or
the counter. It is not thus he reveals his origins. His independence as man and
artist has a Lancashire tang. The gritty strength of his mind is in interesting
contradiction of the softness of his accents and the unhurried urbanity of his
talk. He has surprises up his sleeve. He was trained as a dentist before, in
his early twenties, he began to study music. He was thirty-three when he first
gained international recognition with his Theme and Variations for two violins,
at the London Festival of the International Society for Contemporary Music.
Warsaw heard his Symphonic Studies, in 1939; since then, although the war
interrupted his creative activities, he has greatly increased his reputation
through his Symphony, Concertos, Overtures - all of a most distinguished and
arresting individuality. His music no more slaps you on the back and hails you
as a good fellow than he himself does. He assumes your intelligence, in his
music, and in his conversation. Otherwise, well, pity: a bland farewell,
without heat or regret, and it and he are gone.
He has been placed among the "Big Four" of British composers, but he appears to be indifferent to categories and classifications. He follows his thought and is content to catch up. You meet no trace of conceit or pose; nor does he pretend to be a haberdasher doing music on the sly. He is a composer pur sang [pure blood]. I have mentioned the interruption of his work by the war. He joined the Army in 1941, and I happily saw him now and then (not often enough) during those times. It was difficult. to imagine him in uniform: even to recognise the physical fact. He is not for uniforms: not any kind. He might for fun devise one of his own. I hesitate to think it would have the approval of the Army Council. But he never ceases to be able to laugh; never? - well, scarcely ever. The death of his closest friend, Constant Lambert, was the kind of blow to him that only he can know.
"Reserved," some people
may think. He can be, and indeed, about the deeper things of life and work, he
is. For not only is he warmly liked, he is respected. His contribution to
argument, to genial talk, to party fun and games is generous and idiosyncratic.
His wit can be both subtle and devastating. No rancour. I have had some happy
evenings with him on Brains Trusts and Critics' Forums, and I know. When, on
occasion, an excess of Celtic ‘hwyl’ [a deep, emotional joy or enthusiasm,
often from being fully immersed in the moment], has got me in the blush-making
toils of self-bamboozlement, Alan, sitting on my left, has, with the scientific
tenderness of a skilled surgeon, cut the knots, distributed them prettily on
the Forum table, and left me roaring with an enjoyment almost equal - almost, I
said to that of the delighted auditors. He is much too clever for you, and so
nicely so, that you want to ask him for the bill and pay it.
He has humour in rich proportions,
too. (As I have indicated, he is not Lancashire for nothing.) Some of his
stories, not least against himself, have an irresistible appeal. And it is
seldom one encounters him without having tears of laughter in at least two
pairs of eyes.
At 47, much lies ahead of a composer of such rare gifts, of SO civilised a spirit, of such fastidious
craftsmanship. The pursuit of popularity is not even his hobby. "This is
the sort of music I write," and if you happen not to be on the wavelength, there is other music.
Notes
[1] Hyam “Bumps” Greenbaum (1901–1942) was an English violinist, conductor, and early BBC television pioneer. A gifted orchestral leader and member of Peter Warlock’s bohemian circle, he influenced many composers and became the first conductor of a television orchestra before his early death.
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