Posted on by Stuart Millson

Contemporary classics

Harvesting on the Sussex Downs, by John Charles Dollman.
Image: Wikimedia Commons
STUART MILLSON assesses some horizon-broadening CDs

Part of the pleasure (or occasionally, the necessary discomfort) of reviewing music, is to find unfamiliar works and composers – in genres, perhaps, not entirely to your taste – and embarking upon a process of self-training – dismissing your prejudices, trying to clear your mind and hearing the music as if it is the first music you have ever heard. Of course, the exercise is nearly impossible, but there are occasions when you genuinely begin to find an attraction to something that, hitherto, you might never have listened to.

The first such CD in this month’s review pile fits into the latter category: the chamber music of Justin Connolly (1933-2020) – an overlooked figure even in the realm of contemporary music, who, in the late-1950s came under the wing of Roberto Gerhard (composer of the choral-orchestral The Plague) and symphonist, Peter Racine Fricker.

Connolly, who became a teacher in his own right, developed what could be described as an astringent, even hard style, something which can be found and felt in a three-movement String Trio (Op. 43) – a work which might complement a Britten String Quartet, or the quartet by Stephen Matthews (a tonality-challenging work given some years ago at the English Music Festival).

Yet there is much light and shade in the score, and it would be fair to say that Connolly, like Britten, in his quest for a pure form of music, did not turn his back entirely on folklore. In Ceilidh, Op. 29, written with younger musicians in mind and performed in the US during the country’s bicentennial celebrations, the composer retains his customary ‘gimlet focus’ on technicality, but hints at an old-world atmosphere with movement titles such as, Gathering, Dordfiansa (spear-clashing dance), Night, and Four-hand reel. Recorded in venues as various as the Royal Academy of Music and the studios of the Australian Broadcasting Company, Melbourne, the passionate devotee of contemporary music and audio perfection will find the Justin Connolly collection essential listening.

Another contemporary-music CD – Distant Voices, New Worlds, Songs, Landscape and Histories – brings together the Sky Rhythms of Ed Hughes, Shirley J. Thompson’s Hymn to the Evening, Evelyn Ficarra’s What Larks, and Rowland Sutherland’s Modes from the Downs (the latter two pieces, both written three years ago).  In Sky Rhythms, Ed Hughes adapts words taken from the Mass Observation Archive Day Survey, from 1937 – an interesting and involving weaving together of everyday thoughts, worries concerning the world situation, and an evocation of Sussex – of England. Here are some extracts (the words of one, Mary Robinson):

I live in a seaside bungalow town, in a furnished bungalow,

Very small and draughty,

but fortunately,

looking out across open fields and country

to the South Downs…

… To the news’ agents

Daily Herald Placard

Stalin might do something to make our bread dearer

Further depressed by news in paper

which hopes that England will not let France down…

… The air is splendid,

we get whatever sunshine is going,

and witness superb skyscapes,

Felpham, where Blake lived, is near…’

A modern ‘Lark Ascending,’ a contemporary ‘Land of Lost Content,’ a ‘Paradise Postponed,’ or the paintings of John or Paul Nash, Evelyn Mary Dunbar, John Piper, Eric Ravilious – all of these thoughts and associations came into my mind in this strongly modern setting, which includes electric guitar, as well as flute and clarinet. Expertly performed, this production by Sussex musicians (ensembles, The New Music Players, The Orchestra of Sound and Light) shows that the landscape inspiration in our artistic DNA is unbroken.

A mellow tonality of summer warmth and wandering can be enjoyed in Shirley J. Thompson’s An Hymn to the Evening (a setting of Phillis Wheatley, from the eighteenth century) and in Matthew Sheeran’s Languet Anima, in which echoes of fourteenth-century music gently appear and drift for an all-too-brief three minutes — a piece reminiscent of modern orchestral settings of Byrd or Dowland.

Finally, to the music of Arthur Butterworth (1923-2014), a one-time player in the Hallé Orchestra (incidentally, his signature appeared, alongside that of his orchestral colleagues on the score of Vaughan Williams’s Eighth Symphony – premiered by Manchester’s great orchestra) – but he went on, not in the orchestral ranks, but to forge a career as a composer.

Windy Hill, on the Pennine Way. Image: Jooniur, Wikimedia Commons

Not for Butterworth, though, the challenges of atonality, the abandonment of convention by the brave, new ‘Manchester School’ of Maxwell Davies, Goehr and Birtwistle. In Butterworth, we are taken by the hand, rucksacks on our backs – as if by a musical Wainwright – to the peaks and tarns of the North, in a rhapsodic, but never sweet or self-consciously nostalgic survey of sky, rock, scrubby path, rainfall, tufts of moorland grass vibrating in the wind, and eerie, supernatural forest shadows. The Fifth Symphony from 2001-2; Three Nocturnes, Northern Summer Nights; The Quiet Tarn; The Green Wind – the listener will revel in the Sibelius-like passage of clouds, the full use of the late-romantic orchestra (with some gorgeous harp moments) and a sense of escapism, dreamy altitudes, and communing with Nature. As Butterworth proves, not all contemporary music has to conform to one standard. And as the South Downs composers also reveal, modernism need not be removed from a wider audience.

CD details: Justin Connolly, Music for Strings (plus…), metier label, mex 77209; Distant Voices, New Worlds, metier, mex 77131; Arthur Butterworth, Symphony No. 5 etc, Dutton Epoch, CDLX 7253. Royal Scottish National Orchestra conducted by the composer

Posted on by Gail White

The stricken queens

GAIL WHITE has been writing poetry since she learned to print. She currently serves as a consulting editor to Light Poetry Magazine. Her latest chapbook, Paper Cuts, is available on Amazon, along with  books Asperity Street and Catechism. She lives in the Louisiana bayou country with her husband and cats. 

The Stricken Queens

Taking refuge from the rain

in the Museum of Scotland,

I found them unexpectedly:

the Isle of Lewis Chessmen.

Kings and bishops, knights,

a berserker biting his shield,

dignified, large-eyed, calm,

and then – the masterpiece –

two dismayed ivory queens.

Each holds a hand to her cheek

under a heavy crown

and gazes, pale and aghast,

into her private abyss.

I think of Aud the Deep-Minded,

building a ship in a forest.

Grown rich in thinly-settled Iceland,

She will leave a wedding feast

to lie down and die.

I think of strong Gudrun,

four times married, a woman

powerful in revenge.

And what can a woman do –

after husbands, children, flight,

ambition, revenge –

but gaze dismayed at the past,

appalled at the future,

into her private abyss?

Posted on by Liam Guilar

Six go in search of a bride

This translation by LIAM GUILAR is from the medieval Welsh prose tale, Culhwch ac Olwen. Having enlisted the help of his cousin, King Arthur, Culhwch and his companions set out from Arthur’s court to find Olwen, the daughter of Ysbaddaden Pencawr (Ysbaddaden Chief Giant)

Six go in search of a bride

And so they travel ‘til they come to a vast plain,

and they see the biggest fort they’d ever seen.

All that day they struggled towards it,

but ‘though they thought they were advancing,

they were no nearer than when they started.

And the second and third day they travelled,

and with difficulty approached the fort.

As they closed the distance, they saw a flock of sheep,

so vast they couldn’t see the ends of it. 

On the top of a mound, a shepherd, dressed in skins,

was guarding it and by his side a shaggy dog

bigger than a horse nine winters old.

He had never lost a lamb much less a full grown sheep.

No troop had ever gone past

without him doing it hurt or harm.

His breath would burn to the ground,

any dead bush or tree on the plain.

Kei said to Gwrhyr Interpreter of Tongues:

‘Go talk to that man.’

‘Me? I promised to go as far as you did,

I didn’t say I’d go any further.

We’ll go together.’

Menw mab Tiergywaed said:

‘Don’t worry about the hound,

I’ll glamour it and you’ll be safe.’

‘It is fine you are, shepherd.’[i]

‘May things be no better for you than they are for me.’

‘God’s truth, you are the chief.’

‘No one can harm me except my wife.’

‘Whose sheep do you guard and whose is that fort?’

‘Stupid men. Everybody knows

that fort belongs to Ysbaddaden Pencawr.’

‘And you, who are you?’

‘Custenhin Amhynwyedic and on account of my wife,

my brother Ysbaddaden Pencawr has ruined me.

And you, who are you?’

‘We are Arthur’s messengers,

come to ask for Olwen.’

‘Oh men, may God protect you.

For all the world don’t do that.

No one ever came on that errand

and left with his life.’

The shepherd arose from the mound.

As he arose, Culhwch gave him a golden ring.

He tried to put it on, but it wouldn’t fit.

He put it in the finger of his glove, went home,

and gave the glove to his wife. 

‘Where did you find this ring

It’s not your usual scavenging.’

‘As I was walking down by the sea side.’

‘A long way from your sheep?’

‘I was looking for seafood.

I saw a fine corpse tossed up by the tide

and found this gold ring on his finger.’

‘Take me there, husband,’ the wife replied.

‘If the sea won’t swallow a dead man’s treasure, 

show me his fine looking corpse.’

‘The dead man will soon be washed to our gates

so be patient a little and linger.’

‘His name, husband, tell me his name?’

‘Culhwch, your nephew, your sister’s son.

He’s come here looking for Olwen.’

‘Bittersweet is your news, husband,

I’ll see my nephew at last:

but that’s a quest no one’s survived.’

Hearing the noise of their approach

she rushed out to greet them.

As she opened her arms to embrace him,

Kei snatched a log from the woodpile

and placed the stake between her hands.

She squeezed it until it was a twisted withy.

‘Ha woman,’ he said, ‘that was an evil loving.

If you’d hugged me like that, no one

would ever make love to me again.’

They were welcomed into the house.

After a while, when all were busy,

she opened a chest beside the hearth,

releasing a youth with curly, golden hair.

‘It‘s a shame to conceal such a lad,’ said Gwrhyr.

‘I know it’s not his crime that’s being punished.’

‘He’s all that I’ve got left,’ she said.

‘I had 23 sons and Ysbaddaden Pencawr

has killed them all.

I’ve no more hope for this one

than I had for his dead brothers.’

‘Be my companion,’ said Kei, 

‘and no one will kill either of us,

unless they kill us both.’

As they continued eating,

the woman asked:

‘What errand brought you here?’

‘We have come to seek Olwen.’

‘For God’s sake, turn back;

before you’re seen

by someone in the fort.’

‘God’s truth, we will not,

until we’ve seen the maiden.

Does she come to a place

where we could see her?’

‘Every Saturday she comes here to wash her hair

and every Saturday she leaves her rings in the bowl.

Neither she nor her servants come back for them.’

‘Will she come if she is sent for?’

‘God knows I will not harm my friend.

I will not betray one who trusts me. 

But if you give me your word

she won’t be harmed, I’ll send for her.’

‘We give it.’

And so they sent for her.

[i] Throughout the story, there are conversations like the one which follows, which sound as though the participants are in a scene from a Beckett play. 

Posted on by Stuart Millson · 1 Comment

Sounds of sovereigns

Coronation Banquet of George IV

Royal Throne of Kings

Ralph Vaughan Williams, Albion Records, ALBCD062 

 STUART MILLSON finds royalist strains in the complex composer

Since the days of Purcell and Handel, English composers have often excelled at royal music, or more accurately, marches and anthems for great regal occasions. Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872-1958) did not quite fit into this tradition, with Elgar, Bliss and Walton largely assuming that role during his lifetime. He used to say he would never write such music. He nevertheless famously composed for Elizabeth ll’s coronation (‘O Taste and See,’ a setting of Psalm 34, and ‘All People That On Earth Do Dwell,’ based on Psalm 100) although in a way that stressed the link between monarch and people – which is characteristic of his complex character and work, bridging ancient and modern, mystical and democratic.

Vaughan Williams also wrote for monarchs less directly, in his many incidental orchestral and vocal pieces for (or inspired by) Shakespeare’s history plays – dramas laying bare the trials and tribulations of the kings of old, the dark moments of their reigns as well as the moments of jubilation. Ironically enough, on the strength of this latest CD release from Albion Records, it could be argued that Vaughan Williams was in fact the most prolific servant of the Royal remit of any English composer, commemorating England’s battles, bloodshed, dynastic struggles, civil wars and crownings of Kings across the entire span of the country’s life as a monarchy.

Shakespeare being the inspiration, the disc offers us such gems as the 1913 Stratford Suite, in which ‘Greensleeves’ and several other famous tunes from Tudor antiquity make an appearance. Throughout the 72 minutes of music carefully curated and conducted by Vaughan Williams expert, Dr. James Ross, the listener will recognise folk-tunes which appear in other guises, such as Henry lV’s ‘Princess Royal’ — also heard in the quick-march opening to the composer’s jaunty ‘Sea Songs,’ ‘Halfe Hannikin’ (found in Sir John in Love and Fat Knight), Dowland’s ‘Pavane Lachrymae’ which was used by Sir Granville Bantock in Old English Dances, and finally, the noble plainsong melody which makes an appearance in the semi-final movement of Tippett’s Suite for the Birthday of Prince Charles, and in the Allan Gray film score for the classic Powell and Pressburger film, A Canterbury Tale — the uplifting ‘Angelus ad Virginem.’

However, what makes this recording such an exciting find, the production such a success — so atmospheric and authentic, throughout — is the use of a smaller orchestra, in this instance the poised, elegant, silvery strings (listen out for the latter quality in Track 18) of the often-overlooked Kent Sinfonia. Recorded in Kent churches (Wye and Hythe) James Ross’s players bring an atmosphere of the theatre to the proceedings, but sacrifice nothing in the expansive and spine-tingling moments in Richard ll, or in Henry V’s appointment with destiny in the “vasty fields of France” (the seven-minute long ‘Henry V Overture’).

The recording has plenty of ‘air’ around it, so the dry acoustic of studios and modern concert-halls is, mercifully, avoided. A Tudorish brass sound, spot-on woodwind and martial side-drums ring out from the spaces of the mediaeval churches (so often the best recording venues), whilst the choral contribution of the Albion Singers in Henry lV – especially the rich baritones – suggests a larger number of singers than were actually present at the making of the record. Guildhall-trained soprano, Eloise Irving, also brings her magic to solo songs, such as in the famous melancholy setting from Othello, ‘Sing willow, willow willow.’ 

With informative programme notes, excellent photography and artwork from the Ralph Vaughan Williams Society’s John Francis, the CD is complete joy from start to finish: my ‘album of the year.’

CD details: Vaughan Williams, Royal Throne of Kings, Albion Records, ALBCD062 

Posted on by Liam Guilar

Three translations from Culhwch ac Owen

LIAM GUILAR is the poetry editor of The Brazen Head. These are three of his translations from the medieval Welsh prose tale, Culhwch ac Olwen (i.m. Michael Alexander)

Translating Culhwch ac Olwen

In popular films the sexy treasure hunter/archaeologist

(they conflate the two, much to my trowel wielding friends’ dismay)

who’s fluent in every lost forgotten ancient language,

confronting the inscription on the recently uncovered wall,

or gazing at the long lost rediscovered legendary text,

looks, then translates, without a pause, the symbols

into fluent, idiomatic, contemporary American.

The reality goes more like this:

Kilyd son of Kledon Wledic

Wanted a wife as noble as himself.

Here is the woman he wanted.

Goleudyt daughter of Anlawd Wledic.

So far so good.

After they stayed together What? Gwest Ah, see note.

They spent the night together. Is that too direct?

The verb’s related to the one for copulation.

They came together. After they were married

….bland. After they slept together,

no, the story teller could have used kysgu gan.

The cruder options? No. Not here. What follows?

The country went to pray they ?might have? offspring

And they got a child/boy through the prayers of the country.

And from the hour she captured, caught?

The next word’s definitely ‘pregnant’. Another note.

‘Became pregnant’ though literally ‘caught pregnancy’.

As though it were an illness, perhaps better than ‘fell pregnant’

which evokes abrupt decline, or woman, falling?

Then she went wild/feral. Another note.

‘She went mad’. Mad or wild is somewhere you go to

in this case beyond the civilised boundaries.

She’s gone mad and won’t go near a building.

Wouldn’t enter a building?

And from the time that she was pregnant,

She went wild and wouldn’t enter any building.

And when her time came, she came to her good sense.

You go mad but come to your senses. The payoff’s here, 

the sudden twist estranging your own language.

You go out of your mind as though it were a car,

and you could leave in the car park to return to

when finished being mad and needed it again. Anyway,

what’s next? Pigs!? What? We’re up to line 7, only

one thousand two hundred and thirty eight to go.

May I marry your daughter?

(The giant Ysbaddaden Pencawr knows he will die when Olwen, his beautiful daughter, marries. Understandably, he doesn’t welcome her suitors. But Culhwch has been told that if he doesn’t marry Olwen, he will never marry anyone. He and his six companions set out to ask the giant for her hand in marriage. What isn’t stated but becomes obvious is that the giant can’t be killed until his daughter is married.)

They killed the nine gatekeepers,

and not a man cried out.

They killed their nine huge mastiffs;

not one so much as squealed.

And so they came into the hall.

‘Ysbaddaden Pencawr! Greetings

in the name of God and man!’

‘You, where are you going?’

‘We seek your daughter, Olwen,

for Culhwch son of Kilyd.’

‘Where are those rascal servants?

Where are those ruffians of mine?

Raise up the forks under my eyelids

so I can see my future son in law.’

This they did. ‘Come back tomorrow

I’ll have an answer for you then.’

He had three stone spears beside him,

each tipped with poison.

As they turned to go he seized one

and flung it after them.

Bedwyr caught it and hurled it back,

piercing the giant through his knee cap.

‘Cursed savage son in law!

It will be worse for me when I go downhill.

Like the sting of a gadfly,

the poisoned iron has hurt me.

Cursed be the smith who made it

and the anvil on which it was forged.‘              

They stayed that night at Custennin’s house.

And on the second day, they set out to the hall,

in majesty, with fine combs in their hair.

‘Ysbaddaden Pencawr,

give us your daughter.

In return for her dowry and marriage fee

to you and her two kinswomen.

And if we don’t get her from you;

you’ll get your death from us.’

‘Her four great-grandmothers

and her four great-grandfathers

are still alive. I must consult them.’

‘You do that. We’ll go eat.’

He took the second spear

and hurled it after them.

Menw mab Teirgwaedd

caught it and threw it back.

It pierced the centre of his chest

and sprung out the small of his back.

‘Cursed savage son in law.

The pain of this hard iron

is like the sting of a horse-leech.

Cursed be the forge wherein it was heated.

Now, when I go uphill,

there will be a tightness in my chest,

stomach aches and frequent nausea.’ 

They went to their food.

On the third day they came to the court.

‘Ysbaddaden Pencawr,

stop throwing spears at us.

Do not wish hurt and harm

and death upon yourself.’

‘My eyelids have fallen over my eyeballs –

Where are my servants, raise up the forks

so I may look on my future son in law.’

They arose, and as they rose,

he took the third spear

and hurled it at them. This time,

Culhwch caught it and threw it back,

and as he wished, it pierced the eyeball

went through and out the back of his neck.

‘Cursed savage son in law.

As long as I live the sight in one eye

will be worse than the other.

Whenever I walk in the wind it will water.

I’ll have headaches and giddiness

at the start of each moon.

Cursed be the forge that heated it.

Worse than the bite of a mad dog

is the sting of its poisoned iron.’

Next day they came to the court.

‘Don’t attack us anymore.

You’ll bring hurt and harm

and martyrdom to yourself.

Give us your daughter.’

‘Which one of you was told to seek her?’

‘Me, Culhwch, son of Kilyd.’

‘Come here so I can see you.’

A chair was placed under him,

so they could be face to face.

‘Is it you who seeks my daughter?’

‘I do.’ ‘Give me your word

that you’ll be just?’ ‘I give it.’

‘When you give me what I name,

then you will have my daughter.’

‘Name what you want.’

The Lame Ant

(Ysbaddaden gives Culhwch forty impossible tasks. This poem tells how one of them is achieved. Gwythyr is one of Culhwch’s companions.)

As Gwythyr mab Greidawl

was crossing a mountain,

he heard lamentations:

a most bitter wailing.

Dreadful this noise.

He rushed towards it

drawing his sword,

cutting the anthill

off at the ground

saving the ants from

the blistering flames.

‘God’s blessing and ours upon you,’

they said to him.

‘And that which no man can recover

we will recover for thee.’

These were the ants

who collected the flax,

all the nine hestors

Ysbaddaden demanded.

But one seed was missing.

Until just before sunset.

it was finally brought in

by the last, limping ant.

Posted on by Richard Dove

Bliss in the rain

RICHARD DOVE is warmed on a wet day

A rain-soaked, windy, grey Sunday afternoon on the Deal seafront and around 50 valiant, anorak-wrapped hardy souls are in deckchairs facing the Royal Marines tribute (after the 1989 Deal Bombing, in which 11 Royal Marines died) bandstand listening to the Sandwich Concert Brass Band. Can there be a more enduring English scene? As I stand and observe, I wonder if any other genre of music could attract these people to this place, given the atrocious weather.

Brass bands have warmth, whiffs of nostalgia and an enduring empathy with audiences. We are not in awe of their virtuosity. A brass band is the friendly, helpful neighbour who always has that drill bit or lawn spiker to loan you.

Sir Arthur Bliss came to mind as I sheltered and listened. He adored brass bands and was often astounded by their virtuosity: “Hearing the sound these players can produce, it did not take much to persuade me to write Kenilworth.”

The previous few days I had been listening to a new Chandos CD, Bliss: Works for Brass Band, performed by the Black Dyke Band and conducted by that musical polymath, John Wilson. Kenilworth, F13 was composed in 1936 after a visit to four Lancashire towns and Kenilworth Castle. It has everything – an up-beat march, solemn ceremony, solo fanfares, touches of melancholy and a joyous concluding march. It is music that inspires the spirits and warms the heart whatever the weather.

John Wilson has ranged far and wide across Bliss’s brass band works. A highlight is ‘Things to Come’, a suite for Alexander Korda’s film based on H G Wells’ novel The Shape of Things to Come. Wells invited Bliss to compose the music for the film even before filming began. Bliss joined the production team to modify and embellish the score during shooting. The excellent sleeve notes note that the March melody is sorrowful in character, suggesting a weary humanity locked in never-ending strife, yearning for peace. Plus ça change.

Diaghilev’s Ballets left a lasting impression on Bliss. He recalled that leaving a ballet had led him to board the bus home with a Nijinsky leap. A meeting with Ninette de Valois led to the composition of his ballet Checkmate. The four dances on from the ballet soar and swirl as Love and Death compete for ascendancy. We hear rapid shifts of mood as elation and despair are played out. Hardly suitable for a wet Sunday afternoon in Deal – try evening twilight.

This wonderful CD encapsulates the moods and circumstances of a day, a week, a lifetime. John Wilson cajoles and nurtures the Black Dyke (have we lost all our Mills?) Band across this spectrum of Bliss and his love of brass.

Bliss: Works for Brass Band

Black Dyke Band conducted by John Wilson

Chandos Digital CHSA 5344

Posted on by Stuart Millson · 3 Comments

Looming Labour pains

Image: Wikimedia Commons
STUART MILLSON says the almost guaranteed Starmer government will need to be realistic

Staring into the political abyss, in this, the last fortnight of the General Election campaign, the British Conservative Party is probably asking itself: how has it come to this? The impressive majority won by Boris Johnson in the 2019 Brexit election across large areas of the midlands and northern England where Labour once reigned unchallenged, has dissolved into nothingness. The allegiance of those former Labour voters (the result of Labour abandoning the real workers in favour of a ‘smarter’ internationalism forged in the salons of central London) has boomeranged back to the party of prices-and-incomes policies and trades unionism. 

Reinventing Labour as an electable, reassuringly mainstream force for common-sense, whose delegates sing God Save The King at their conference and vote for increased defence spending, Sir Keir Starmer’s determination to pull his members away from the Corbyn years of grievance-Socialism (and from the Blairite legacy of free migration and easy credit) has pulled the rug from under his Tory opponents.

Combined with the catastrophic mistakes made by the Conservatives – shindigs in Downing Street during lockdown, a Liz Truss economic gamble that succeeded in doubling everybody’s mortgage payments, the present scandal about election-date gambling by senior Conservatives – Starmer has emerged to raise again the tattered and tarnished banner of trust – in politicians, and in the reliability of government. Curiously enough for an Opposition leader who mocked Truss’s ideology of growth-at-all-costs, Starmer has placed at the top of his agenda the very idea of those denounced free-marketeers – that the only possibility of clambering out of the United Kingdom’s slurry pit of debt and billion-of-pounds social spending is to shore up the real, productive economy. 

Yet can he ever achieve his growth-to-fuel-the-welfare-state objective? With the industries that Labour so relied upon from 1945 to 1979 now either pruned to their thinnest-possible capacity, or completely non-existent, can a Starmer Government ever hope to re-seed industry? After the 5th July, will the new ministers subsidise, nationalise Port Talbot steelworks, protect British jobs, rescue us from privatised price-rises in the (Tory-created) deregulated energy market by establishing a new Great British energy company? Economic experts such as the Institute for Fiscal Studies fear that no new government will have much chance to address Britain’s ever-growing state borrowing. 

There seems little doubt that Starmer will partially ramp up Britain’s defences, say the right things that will appeal to Middle England and the old Red Wall/Brexit seats of the North, and within the precincts of government will pay little attention to ‘woke’ – one of our few remaining growth industries. He will see planning regulations as being against growth – a curious similarity with Truss – yet will make the mistake of viewing housing development and wind farms as generators of wealth. He will pay little attention to countryside matters or rural voters’ concerns: he is, after all (like Jeremy Corbyn) a London politician, through and through.

Sir Keir also promises a new Border Command, to tackle the mass-migrant arrivals on the Kent coast – but just what does that mean? Just a renaming of the existing messy, ineffectual Border Force? His undoubted successes in Scotland will relegate the SNP, and that alone is a good thing for the Union of the Kingdom – so his victory will be a mixed bag. It will usher in, however, a long period of further detachment from politics: he and his team look technocratic and too-serious, even when they remove their ties at those irritating ‘let-me-level-with-you’ moments. And a year from now, everyone who voted for the Labour landslide is likely to be complaining about electricity prices, too-high mortgages, ‘Labour dictatorship’….

Starmer is in the real world – a world away from Corbyn and the recent Labour past – and he and his inner circle know that they will have to deal with Meloni and Le Pen, Russia and China. So his government – tested by world events – may reflect a new managerialism, not an old ideology. We drift into new waters, new times…

Posted on by Richard Dove

Realms of imagination

Cincinnati Subway, by Jonathan Warren. Image: Wikimedia Commons

Atlas of Improbable Places: A Journey to the World’s Most Unusual Corners

Travis Elborough and Alan Horsfield, London: Aurum Press, 2021, 208pps. Hb, £24.99

RICHARD DOVE voyages to odd places from his armchair

Some years ago, I was on holiday in Iceland. We had hired a very inadequate car (limited budget) for a road trip from Reykjavik to the spectacular Vatnajökull glacier on the southern coast. Whilst driving through the wonderfully bleak, black volcanic landscape we spotted an orange tailfin of what looked like a fighter plane. We stopped to investigate and after a short walk came across a full size replica of a MiG-31; a balsa wood testament to Russian aeronautical ingenuity. No signs, no explanation. It was only later that we learnt that it was a left behind prop for a Clint Eastwood film, Firefox.

This spurred my interest in historical and geographical anomalies, such as the suburban bungalow in Essex that disguised the UK’s Cold War HQ beneath. When The Atlas of Improbable Places arrived on my desk, I devoured it in one sitting. It is a labour of curiosity and love by Travis Elborough and cartographer Alan Horsfield.

Lithuania’s Hill of 100,000 Crosses, by Diego Delso. Image: Wikimedia Commons

It details dream creations, deserted destinations, architectural oddities, floating worlds, otherworldly spaces and subterranean realms. I learnt about the Hill of 100,000 crosses in Lithuania. The crosses were planted to commemorate people who had died combatting their Russian overlords.  Often dissidents would just go missing, so in the absence of a body, a cross was erected on a small hill near the city of Siauliai. The first crosses appeared in 1831. The Russians ordered that the crosses be bulldozed but within a few days more had been erected. So they spread sewage over the hill but still the crosses appeared in defiance of cordons and KGB guards. Pope John Paul II planted his own cross on the Hill in 1993. It is now a site of political and spiritual pilgrimage.

Portmeirion gets a welcome mention as does the extraordinary underground postal railway in London, now a tourist attraction. Beijing’s abandoned Disney-land-style theme offers a rather different view of China, as does Teufelsberg, the abandoned US spy station in Berlin, a far from subtle eavesdropping nerve centre in the Cold War. You can also learn about Cincinnati’s still abandoned subway system and the illicit tunnels constructed by Chinese immigrants in Moose Jaw, Canada. When racism and economic decline hit the city, the Chinese were targeted. They went underground, reappearing to run a laundry in the daytime or such like, and bamboozle their oppressors.

For creepiness, you cannot beat the Ibaloi Mummy Caves at Benguet in the Philippines. The tribe favoured an embalming method of smoking and drying out bodies, leaving a sort of desiccated husk. When mummification was complete, they were laid to rest in wooden coffins and stacked in cave tombs. They await your visit.

Posted on by A Z Foreman

A Ninth Century Winter Poem – from Old Irish

A. Z. FOREMAN is a literary translator, poet and language teacher currently working on a doctorate in Near Eastern Languages at the Ohio State University. He received his B.A. in Linguistics from the University of Chicago, and his M.A. in Arabic Language from the University of Maryland. His translations from Arabic, Chinese, OldIrish, Italian, Russian, Old English, Ukrainian, Yiddish and Welsh have appeared in sundry anthologies, journals and a BBC radio broadcast. He divides his time between the bedroom, the bathroom and the kitchen. If you have a dog, he would very much like to pet it.

A Ninth Century Winter Poem

From Old Irish

Here’s my song.   Sad stags moan.

Winter blows,   summer’s gone.

High winds lash.    Low, the sun.

Short, its course.   Seas roar on.

Fall-red fern   loses form.

Wildgeese wail   as the norm.

Cold now holds   each bird’s wing.

Icy times.   So I sing.

Posted on by Stuart Millson · 1 Comment

Masters of the English musical renascence

Image: Stuart Millson

STUART MILLSON reports from the 17th English Music Festival

Ever since 2006, except for the shortest of absences due to the Covid crisis, the Oxfordshire village of Dorchester-on-Thames has been hosting the English Music Festival, the EMF – the artistic creation of one dedicated Englishwoman, Mrs. Em Marshall-Luck. The first-ever concert was held on an October evening, given by the BBC Concert Orchestra conducted by (the late) David Lloyd Jones – a conductor noted for his love of opera and Russian music, but also for the music of the English musical renascence: the era often seen as dominated by Elgar, but actually the time when Holst, Vaughan Williams, Bax, Bliss, Ireland and many others shaped a national musical style (or styles) with their expansive symphonies and folk-infused song-cycles.

For an initially small Festival with great ambitions, but – inevitably – with limited funds, the participation of the BBC’s most versatile orchestra was a masterstroke of strategy by the Festival founder – ensuring a prestigious beginning to her concert series and an all-important broadcast on BBC Radio 3. At once the Festival was put on the map and thanks to many others being inspired by Em’s great enthusiasm, has grown in scale and scope through the years, with the BBC’s orchestra still the mainstay of the opening concert.

Today, the Festival takes place over the May Bank Holiday, a time when the countryside surrounding Dorchester comes into its own: willow cotton drifting on the air; the footpaths to the Thames laced with white cow parsley; meadows of buttercups leading to Iron Age embankments; and nearby, under the full canopy of churchyard trees, the welcome shade and cool recesses of places such as St. Peter, Little Wittenham. 

Here, among the tomb chests and brasses, the Oxfordshire of quiet parsons and fussy parochial church councils can be found – but also the dreamy, immemorial Thames-scape of William Morris and Kenneth Grahame, the immemorial England of T.S. Eliot, Sir John Betjeman, or Philip Larkin’s Whitsun Weddings. High above the hamlet, like a sentinel in the downland, stand the trees of the Wittenham Clumps: inspiration for Paul Nash – and welcome shade for grazing cows and OS-guided walkers who find themselves a little too warm after wandering to the ridge on a hot day. As was the case with Richard Adams’s rabbits of Berkshire-set Watership Down, the view here seems to take in ‘the whole world!’ – or at least, the Chilterns to the east, Evelyn Waugh’s Oxford to the north, and beyond, an outline of the beginnings of the English Midlands.

Dorchester Abbey is the largest building visible in the landscape (save for a lurking, distant 1930s-looking factory-type structure to the northwest). The Abbey has been a seat of Christianity since the seventh century and a survivor of the reign of Henry Vlll – its great window and towering arches a worthy rival to more famous landmarks, such as Gloucester Cathedral. As the Wittenham Clumps were to Paul Nash, so the Abbey became an inspiration to fellow artist, John Piper – and in our own time, for the orchestral musicians of the EMF, the great church offering a near-perfect acoustic and a truly inspiring setting for their concerts. 

And for the musical offering of Friday 24th May, Doreen Carwithen’s Suffolk Suite opened the BBC Concert Orchestra’s programme, the work based upon romantic and folk-reminiscent melodies originally penned for a short 1950s transport film, entitled East Anglian Holiday. A superior piece of public information-film scoring, the suite begins with a stirring ‘spirit of England’ theme, which gives the impression that you are back on the Wittenham Clumps, surveying the majesty of ‘this other Eden.’ However, East Anglia has no downland, so listeners find themselves rubbing shoulders with morris-dancers at a Suffolk festivity, or being lulled into an afternoon slumber by the waters of Orford Ness. A stirring, martial portrait of Framlingham Castle ends the sequence, but not before a brief reappearance of the moving opening tune – a pleasing farewell to the East of England on Carwithen’s bus or rail trip to the county.

Holst’s imposing and early (1899-1900) Symphony in F major, subtitled The Cotswolds, was the main work in the concert – its last movement, like the Carwithen, conjuring scenes of bucolic, open-air celebration and the atmosphere of a countryside where people still whistled folk-tunes. Yet the work’s other movements sometimes seemed to bypass the village green, with an altogether less scene-painting feel – although it has to be said that the brooding and dark slow movement is a memorial in music to the Arts and Crafts luminary, William Morris. Conductor Martin Yates and the BBC Concert Orchestra played with deeply-felt intensity, with brass and the darker hues of the orchestra summoning the spirits of the Cotswold hills and combes.

Brass instruments were very much in evidence in the world premiere of Ralph Vaughan Williams’s Richard II – A Concert Fantasy, woven together from fragments of music and ‘cues’ written by the composer for a planned wartime radio play. The arranger and bringer-to-life of this Shakespeare scenario is Nathaniel Lew, Professor of Music at St. Michael’s College, Colchester, Vermont, who – like conductor, Martin Yates (the arranger of RVW’s Falstaff suite, ‘Fat Knight’, also once premiered at this Festival) – has a fascination with the rescuing and revival of works once thought to be lost, or not to have existed at all. The performance fully honoured the EMF’s guiding philosophy of what can almost be seen as musical archaeology, or restoration.

Saturday morning’s chamber recital featured Rupert Marshall-Luck, violin, and Peter Cartwright, piano, doing their brilliant bit in bringing obscure works into the limelight, including Ernest Farrar’s Celtic Suite, Bliss’s Theme and Cadenza, and sonatas by Herbert Howells and Sir Charles Villiers Stanford (whose Clarinet Concerto, played by Michael Collins, featured in the first-night concert). Known for his authoritative performances of Elgar’s famous Violin Sonata, Rupert Marshall-Luck, brought gravitas to the Howells and Stanford, aided by the concerto-like strength of Peter Cartwright’s piano playing. Both artists channelled huge energy and concentration into what was a lengthy, often heavyweight chamber programme, which allowed us to see the overlooked greatness of England’s heritage of smaller-scale works.

Hilary Davan Wetton, with the Godwine Choir. Image: Stuart Millson

My journey to Dorchester ended this year with the Saturday evening concert by the Godwine Choir conducted by Hilary Davan Wetton, an effervescent, ever-youthful 80-year-old veteran of the concert podium. Addressing the audience on the desperate need for arts funding in Britain, and contrasting how Parisian politicians would authorise the pouring of money into any festival of French music, the Maestro went on to conduct choral masterpieces such as Vaughan Williams, O Clap Your Hands; Elgar’s 1914 Give Unto The Lord, but with time, too, for the enchanting Blake-inspired part-song by Havergal Brian, The Dream – with a folkish, fairy atmosphere of glades and glow worms. Dreamscapes were also created by the wonderful Godwine voices in the form of Holst’s Sanskrit-inspired Hymns from the Rig Veda, pieces that had the Abbey audience spellbound, especially one of my concert companions, a youngish (still under-40) relative newcomer to music. Proof indeed, should the Arts Council require it, that you stimulate an interest in classical music by playing to people… classical music.

With its Suffolk and Sanskrit music, its Cotswolds and choral contributions, the 2024 EMF may well go down as a vintage ‘season’ – but we say that every year.