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.
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