A key figure in the British musical renaissance, Ethel Smyth was critically acclaimed for her music and writing during her lifetime. Smyth’s Sonata in C minor for cello and piano was written in 1880. The idiomatic handling of the instruments, the impressive command of form and the fluency of the melodic lines make this early work the equal, at least, of her later chamber pieces. The creative conviction of the composer Elizabeth Maconchy expressed here so eloquently, reflects her clarity of thought and strength of purpose. Her Divertimento for cello and piano was written for cellist William Pleeth and pianist Margaret Good, who gave the first broadcast performance on the BBC in 1943. The compositions of Elisabeth Lutyens are characterized by textural economy and organizational rigor. She wrote her Nine Bagatelles in 1942. The language of the work is indicative of a composer deeply connected to the music of her own era. Although Rebecca Clarke wrote most of her music in the early twentieth century, it was not until the final decades of that century that her stature was secured. Rhapsody for cello and piano is her longest and most intricate score.

The word ‘feroce’ appears in the directive for the first movement of Bax’s First Symphony. Myer Fredman does not disappoint – there is something of a ‘dare’ about the horns’ fate-like gesture at the opening of the work, a defiance that runs through this movement. Fredman secures impassioned playing from the LPO and paces the movement supremely well, so that the second subject, when it comes (three minutes in), acts as aural balm in its tender, lyrical, almost sotto voce demeanour. Rhythms, so important, nay vital, here, take on towards the end almost the significance they do in Holst’s ‘Mars’. And look out for moments of real magic, too (the flutes at 10’37ff). The second movement (‘Lento solenne’) is a dark and powerful elegy, hardly a place of retreat from the boundless energies of the surrounding movements (there are only three in total). The London Philharmonic’s concentration seems total. The finale boasts a big-boned introduction (Allegro maestoso) before the doors are opened on some glittering Baxian frolics.

Anguished harmonies seem more prevalent in Symphony No. 7, although some glittering moments bring contrast. The longer paragraphs carry with them a certain grandeur that is most affecting, a certain quiet nobility that inspires some sort of awe. The Lento (with a Piu mosso section marked, ‘In Legendary Mood’) is rather beautiful, although perhaps it is a trifle over-long (it begins to sprawl rather here). The ending is touchingly tender, though.

The finale begins with a nod to Britten in its open-air exuberance, and later features some brass writing that would not have disgraced Walton’s Crown Imperial. The close is certainly grand (although do I detect a hint of bombast?), and the noble, long-breathed string melodies are here even more effective because of Lyrita’s superb, warm recording. Of course we are in competition with Chandos’s Bryden Thomson and Vernon Handley, two conductors whose qualifications in this repertoire are fully acknowledged, not to mention David Lloyd Jones’s Bax recordings for Naxos. Yet Leppard’s instincts are accurate and always convincing.

This is a valuable disc, not least because it puts two substantive works by Bax side-by-side. Both performances do the scores justice and the recording is, as usual from this source, exemplary.

-- Colin Clarke, MusicWeb International

In 1919 Stanford chose to compose a setting of the mass to commemorate the allied victory, hoping perhaps that the work might be attractive to choral societies. In terms of his music connected with the war, the Mass ‘Via Victrix 1914-1918’ Op. 173 would be his greatest and most substantial effort, and it would prove to be a canvas to equal similar large-scale choral tours de force such as his Requiem Op. 63 (1897), Te Deum Op. 66 (1898) and Stabat Mater Op. 96 (1907), all ambitiously conceived for chorus, four soloists, orchestra and organ. Bearing the adapted Latin dedication ( ‘Transiverunt per ignem et aqua et eduxisti in refrigerium’ [“(They) went through fire and water and thou has brought (them) into a wealthy place”?] taken from Psalm 66 verse 12 (from Tyndale’s translation), the work was dedicated to those who made the greatest sacrifice in defence of their country. The mass was therefore intended as a work of thanksgiving, of celebration for the final victory, but equally one which looked into the heart of the nation, to commiserate with those who grieved, to pray for those whose sense of loss was unconsolable, and to urge for a spirit of renewal in the face of the hardships and sorrows the nation had had to endure. In this sense Stanford’s work stood at the vanguard of other cathartic expressions of war grief such as John Foulds’ A World Requiem (1921), Delius’s Requiem (1914, but not performed until 1922) and Arthur Bliss’s Morning Heroes (1930). When news was made known of the unveiling of the Cenotaph and the interment of the Unknown Warrior at Westminster Abbey in October 1920, the Right Hon. Mr Justice Charles John Darling (1st Baron Darling) published a poem ‘At the Abbey Gate’ in The Times on 26 October (under the initials C.J.D.) as part of a larger article ‘To the Unknown Dead’ announcing the special nature of the ceremony on 11 November. Through a desire to commemorate this major national occasion, Stanford decided to set Darling’s poem as a march for chorus, solo baritone and orchestra. At the Abbey Gate Op. 177 was completed in November 1920 in the days following the great national ceremony.

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REVIEWS:

Rescued from obscurity nearly a century after its composition, Stanford’s large-scale post-war mass is definitely worth checking out. Impassioned performances here.

– BBC Music Magazine

Symphonically paced and nuanced in its construction, Stanford’s Mass receives an impressive reading from Adrian Partington, his four soloists, and the wonderful voices of the BBC National Chorus of Wales with BBC NOW. Thanks to the editorial work and tireless advocacy of Stanford scholar Jeremy Dibble, this CD again makes available an important British choral work that has lain largely forgotten for over a century.

– Choir & Organ

Classical Music

Conceived on a grand scale, Lloyd's late choral works build fruitfully upon his previous experience in other genres. They share with his operas an innate lyricism, natural affinity with the human voice and feeling for the long line, while their structural balance, intensive working out of motifs and rich orchestral palette owes a significant debt to his prolific symphonic output.

By the time Stanford had received a commission from the Norfolk and Norwich Festival to write a choral work for them in 1884, he had, at the age of 32, already begun to assert himself as one of Britain's leading composers. The Elegiac Ode was, however, his first mature foray into the world of major British choral festivals. Some of the Elegiac Ode had in fact been sketched three years earlier in 1881, but after the Norwich commission was received, Stanford evidently grasped the opportunity to complete the work in it's entirety in July 1884. The words were taken from the last part of Whitman's elegy, 'When lilacs in the dooryard bloom'd', written in the aftermath of President Lincoln's assassination in 1865 (it was a text which Stanford's pupil, Holst, later used for his Ode to Death, composed in the wake of the war in 1919). Taking the seven verses of the burial hymn, Stanford divided his chosen text into four parts, thereby creating a four-movement musical structure more akin to a choral symphony with it's substantial (and thematically related) choral outer movements flanking two shorter inner essays. By the time Stanford had received a commission from the Norfolk and Norwich Festival to write a choral work for them in 1884, he had, at the age of 32, already begun to assert himself as one of Britain's leading composers. The Elegiac Ode was, however, his first mature foray into the world of major British choral festivals. Some of the Elegiac Ode had in fact been sketched three years earlier in 1881, but after the Norwich commission was received, Stanford evidently grasped the opportunity to complete the work in it's entirety in July 1884. The words were taken from the last part of Whitman's elegy, 'When lilacs in the dooryard bloom'd', written in the aftermath of President Lincoln's assassination in 1865 (it was a text which Stanford's pupil, Holst, later used for his Ode to Death, composed in the wake of the war in 1919). Taking the seven verses of the burial hymn, Stanford divided his chosen text into four parts, thereby creating a four-movement musical structure more akin to a choral symphony with it's substantial (and thematically related) choral outer movements flanking two shorter inner essays. Stanford's large-scale setting of the Te Deum Op. 66 was first sung at the Leeds Festival on 6 October 1898 and it's ambitious, opulent dimensions were clearly intended to be a fitting commemoration of the accession to the throne of Queen Victoria (it's dedicatee) sixty years earlier as well as a tribute to the full-bodied, well-trained Leeds chorus of 350 singers. A particular feature of the Te Deum is the grandeur of much of it's choral writing. Though also dramatic in it's impact, a dominating feature of the Te Deum is it's prominent use of the chorus, and the many fulsome sonorities Stanford was able to draw from the magnificent 'instrument' of the Leeds voices. � Jeremy Dibble

Conceived on a grand scale, Lloyd’s late choral works build fruitfully upon his previous experience in other genres. They share with his operas an innate lyricism, natural affinity with the human voice, and feeling for the long line, while their structural balance, intensive working out of motifs, and rich orchestral palette owe a significant debt to his prolific symphonic output. Lloyd produced the final score of his Requiem a month before his death. It is inscribed ‘to the memory of Diana, Princess of Wales’. Compassionate, reassuring, and even, at times, joyful, this is a conscious leave-taking on the part of the composer. His compact and cogent setting of Psalm 130 constitutes, arguably, his most fluently effective use of a cappella choral writing.

My first encounter with Kenneth V. Jones was in 2016 when our family moved to the village of Bishopstone in the Sussex Downs. Over the course of several months I was able to learn more of Kenneth’s musical life. As soon as he mentioned having once written a string quartet, it was decided to programme the work during the following Season of Seaford Music Society, of which Kenneth was a long-standing member and whose programming I had recently taken on. Such was the warmth of the reception upon hearing the work that it was decided to explore more of Kenneth’s chamber music output, and thus the idea for this CD was born. We have Kenneth to thank for the fact the the Associated Board of the Royal Schools of Music made the decision, at his suggestion, to include contemporary compositions in their graded examination syllabuses. Several of the short character pieces that Kenneth wrote for the ABRSM remain in the syllabus to this day, and a selection of these is included on this recording. It gave me huge pleasure to be able to present to Kenneth the first edit of the current CD, just a few days before his death in December 2020. He was absolutely thrilled. © Sebastian Comberti

Conceived on a grand scale, Lloyd’s late choral works build fruitfully upon his previous experience in other genres. They share with his operas an innate lyricism, natural affinity with the human voice, and feeling for the long line, while their structural balance, intensive working out of motifs, and rich orchestral palette owe a significant debt to his prolific symphonic output. Chris de Souza, writing in The Independent in 1998, described the Brighton Festival commission of A Symphonic Mass as ‘perhaps the climax’ of Lloyd’s ‘astonishing career’. In his review of the original release of the present recording, Ivan March was moved to describe the Mass as ‘one of the finest pieces of English choral writing of the twentieth century’.

Cyril Meir Scott is one of a group of British composers to have benefitted from three cultural features of recent decades: increased curiosity from performers and listeners, a more inclusive outlook from musicologists and critics, and the music industry spotting a gap and a demand. A much more colourful picture of British music in the first half of the twentieth century has resulted. Scott was a prolific writer of fiction and non-fiction as well as a composer of several hundred pieces. His writings and music are deeply invested in mysticism and the occult. This element in Scott’s work, as Sarah Collins has noted, helps us to see beyond received notions of Scott as either a trivial exoticist or an unjustly-neglected pioneer, and to appreciate his music on its own terms. © Brian A. Inglis

Lloyd became a symphonist despite himself. When he was in his twenties he seemed destined to be a composer of operas and it is likely that, had the vicissitudes of war not intervened, he would have written music for the stage exclusively. In an article for the June 1939 issue of the Musical Monthly Record, Harry Farjeon wondered why music for Lloyd was ‘not centred in the concert hall but in the theatre’ and quoted the young composer as being ‘interested only in opera’. There are strong traces in the symphonies of what might have been: the intensely lyrical, cantabile nature of the writing, the intermezzo-like movements, the opera buffa qualities of the finales and the feeling for the long line which runs through those supple and sweeping melodies all denote a born opera composer. In the event his operatic aspirations were cruelly cut short and it is to his courageous, life-affirming twelve symphonies that we must look to chart his development, recovery and eventual triumph.

Lloyd became a symphonist despite himself. When he was in his twenties he seemed destined to be a composer of operas and it is likely that, had the vicissitudes of war not intervened, he would have written music for the stage exclusively. In an article for the June 1939 issue of the Musical Monthly Record, Harry Farjeon wondered why music for Lloyd was ‘not centred in the concert hall but in the theatre’ and quoted the young composer as being ‘interested only in opera’. There are strong traces in the symphonies of what might have been: the intensely lyrical, cantabile nature of the writing; the intermezzo-like movements; the opera buffa qualities of the finales and the feeling for the long line which runs through those supple and sweeping melodies all denote a born opera composer. In the event his operatic aspirations were cruelly cut short and it is to his courageous, life-affirming twelve symphonies that we must look to chart his development, recovery and eventual triumph.

Antoni Gaudí’s monumental temple La Sagrada Familia is a universe within a building. Its mass of stone and metal is bathed in coloured light diffused from dazzling stained glass windows. The colossal structure is supported by great pillars inspired by the shapes of tree trunks that re-inforce the impression of a spiritual forest. Around the main access points to the basilica are three great facades; Nativity, Passion and Glory. Each is a visual world unto itself, stylistically apart yet united by Gaudí’s grandiose vision. These three facades are the inspiration of my three-movement La Sagrada Familia Symphony. The visual journey, from the representational to the abstract, is something I also tried to mirror in the music. When I visited La Sagrada Familia in October 2019 there was still scaffolding to support the work on the remaining towers. Whereas my symphony is inspired by that monumental building, I hope that my musical structure can stand alone as an homage to Gaudí in its own right. The two parts of the cantata begin similarly, presenting first the children of Seth - then in the second part, the children of Noah. Realizing that the aftermath of the destruction of the Tower of Babel could be anti-climactic, I left part of the Noah story unfinished at the end of Part I, and concluded it as an Epilogue. I wanted God’s promise to be the note on which the work should end, a message of hope that the divinity would protect His creation throughout the seasons: “While earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, and day and night shall never cease.” These beautiful words are taken up by the choir and soloists contrapuntally and lead directly to the hymn: Praise My Soul The King Of Heaven, whose melody was woven into the closing section of Part One. Following Britten’s inspiration in Noye’s Fludde and St Nicholas, I invite the audience to join in the hymn, celebrating creation and the world that has been entrusted to us. Babel uses the chorus extensively to narrate both stories, as well as to evoke the terror of the flood and the exuberance of the construction of the tower. In addition to set pieces, such as the Nimrod baritone aria, and the soprano aria, “Do not fear the largeness of the showers,” the three soloists often sing together in close harmony as the other-worldly voice of God. The instrumental forces are relatively modest, with the piano duet supported by the sustaining power of the organ, backed by two percussionists. This sound world is redolent of those Britten masterpieces for amateur choirs, ensembles and audiences, which have inspired many composers since, and to which I too am gratefully indebted.

I set myself the challenge of writing a book of 24 preludes and fugues in all the major and minor keys and I approached family, friends, and several institutions I had been associated with, to commission a prelude and fugue each, with many of the resultant commissioners asking for references to pieces of music that had a special meaning for them, a request that I tried to follow through wherever possible. Within a very short space of time, I realised just what a task I had set myself. The project took me 8 years to complete, and it was not until 2019 that I finally put the finishing touches to the concluding B minor Fugue. The score was published on my birthday in June 2020 and I received an unexpected email from Nathan Williamson, saying that he would love to learn the music, and, because of the restrictions imposed by the covid lockdowns, it might be a good time to see if a complete recording might be contemplated. To our considerable delight, Lyrita Recorded Edition agreed to take on the project that has led to the release of the present boxed set. Very early in the planning process I had decided that the set would be divided into 4 books (each made up of 6 preludes and fugues) based around one of the notes of the name BACH (B flat, A, C and B natural in German notation), and starting and ending in the major or the minor tonality of the 4 keys. In addition I wanted to reference the cryptogram of Dmitri Shostakovich (DSCH – D, E flat, C and B), whose own masterly set of 24 Preludes and Fugues also casts its influence across my set.
Christopher Brown

Antoni Gaudí’s monumental temple La Sagrada Familia is a universe within a building. Its mass of stone and metal is bathed in coloured light diffused from dazzling stained glass windows. The colossal structure is supported by great pillars inspired by the shapes of tree trunks that re-inforce the impression of a spiritual forest. Around the main access points to the basilica are three great facades; Nativity, Passion and Glory. Each is a visual world unto itself, stylistically apart yet united by Gaudí’s grandiose vision. These three facades are the inspiration of my three-movement La Sagrada Familia Symphony. The visual journey, from the representational to the abstract, is something I also tried to mirror in the music. When I visited La Sagrada Familia in October 2019 there was still scaffolding to support the work on the remaining towers. Whereas my symphony is inspired by that monumental building, I hope that my musical structure can stand alone as an homage to Gaudí in its own right. The two parts of the cantata begin similarly, presenting first the children of Seth - then in the second part, the children of Noah. Realizing that the aftermath of the destruction of the Tower of Babel could be anti-climactic, I left part of the Noah story unfinished at the end of Part I, and concluded it as an Epilogue. I wanted God’s promise to be the note on which the work should end, a message of hope that the divinity would protect His creation throughout the seasons: “While earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, and day and night shall never cease.” These beautiful words are taken up by the choir and soloists contrapuntally and lead directly to the hymn: Praise My Soul The King Of Heaven, whose melody was woven into the closing section of Part One. Following Britten’s inspiration in Noye’s Fludde and St Nicholas, I invite the audience to join in the hymn, celebrating creation and the world that has been entrusted to us. Babel uses the chorus extensively to narrate both stories, as well as to evoke the terror of the flood and the exuberance of the construction of the tower. In addition to set pieces, such as the Nimrod baritone aria, and the soprano aria, “Do not fear the largeness of the showers,” the three soloists often sing together in close harmony as the other-worldly voice of God. The instrumental forces are relatively modest, with the piano duet supported by the sustaining power of the organ, backed by two percussionists. This sound world is redolent of those Britten masterpieces for amateur choirs, ensembles and audiences, which have inspired many composers since, and to which I too am gratefully indebted.