Strings The cyclic formal experiment of the piano sonata goes further in my String Quartet. This begins with static chords and a flourish, which reappear at the end of the work, framing an allegro in sonata form, which itself frames three more movements between its development and recapitulation: an adagio that fulfilled a desire to write a beautiful romantic slow movement in D flat major; an idiosyncratic scherzo; and a very odd sort of anti-finale that takes the notes BACH as its starting point. The scoring is also odd – violin, two violas (one being silent in the “BACH” movement) and ‘cello. This derives from an earlier version of the work, scored for string trio, in which the viola part was absurdly virtuosic. The form works rather well: it is a pity the musical material is not of sufficient quality to make the whole quartet worth performing, although the slow movement is tolerable on its own.   My best piece of solo string music is surely the Romance in D, for viola and piano. This delightful gem has many human romantic qualities – always well-meaning, perhaps at times irritating and certainly fickle in its wayward modulations. It is decidedly not slow (the tempo marking is “allegretto amabile”) or sentimental – here is no besotted, empty-gestured lover but a more practical type, busy, surprising, sometimes turbulent, yet also wistful and teasing. The music moves traditionally through A and B sections, then springs its biggest surprise: instead of a recapitulation of A, there is a reminiscence from afar of its themes, which makes as if to end with a moan in F sharp minor. This is just another tease, and the piece ends by slipping back into a smile in D major. This work may never have existed were it not for the BBC, who one day broadcast a set of three romances for viola and piano (I have forgotten by whom). An inordinately long gap between announcement and music gave me time to ponder, and to compose my opening phrases. I gained a lot of pleasure playing through with a friend from the ENB orchestra my Romance and Bridge’s two pieces for viola and piano. It seems to me that these make excellent companions, my piece fitting between Bridge’s to make a three movement suite of increasing tempo and progressing tonality: F minor, D major with F minor middle section, B minor. And now for something completely different, the Ragged rondo for ‘cello and piano, a fun piece, and I hope also rewarding to play. Compositionally it is notable for having a proper introduction – that is one that introduces the listener to three important elements of the ensuing ragged theme. Beethoven would have instantly recognised the sonata-rondo form of the work, but he may have struggled with the content: the ragged theme is not too far out, but what about the episodic material (an expression of my opinion at the time of a lot of the new so-called music of the mid-1970’s)? Violists and ‘cellists may also like to join pianists in trying out the song transcription Sonnet, this string version of the piece being probably its most successful. What, you may ask, is there for the violin? Sorry, fiddlers – all I can offer is the upper part of the Duo movement in B flat major: the Sonata for violin and piano is a dud. It suffers from having been begun when I was 13, little added over the next few years, and the bulk composed when I was 22. An unusual slow movement and some fine passages in the first movement’s development do not compensate for the ungainliness and triteness evident elsewhere in the work. Vocal Those who are aware that, in my composing days, I was best known as a choral singer may be surprised to learn that until 2019, when an encounter with a piece for piano duet based on the folk song The Keys to Canterbury led to my making an arrangement for mixed choir of the song, my output of vocal music consisted of one solo song. This may be less surprising when one finds out that my worst subject at school was English literature. In 2020, lockdown imposed in response to the coronavirus pandemic gave me the time and energy to resume arranging folk songs for choirs, starting with the Swalcliffe May Day Carol from Oxfordshire, followed by Michael Raven’s Nailmakers’ Strike from my original West Midlands homeland and Hops, an 18th century song about Kent’s traditional hop harvest. Whereas The Keys, being a song about courtship inspired a scheme beginning with the tune unadorned and more and more in the way of other voices being gradually added until when the two people finally get together the whole choir sings in harmony, these later settings show more the inspiration of Vaughan Williams’ arrangements. One exercise the A-level class (all two of us) was given was to set a Shakespeare sonnet in the style of Schubert. My effort was a setting of No longer mourn for me, which I described at the time as “Schubert at the age of 40”. I believe I did not get under the skin of the poem, and think the music works better as an instrumental piece, hence the transcriptions entitled Sonnet, for solo piano, and for viola or ‘cello (which could be played on virtually any solo instrument: to enable this, the parts are presented entirely in treble or bass clefs respectively) and piano. Orchestra In view of the time and trouble required to write them, it is perhaps as well that two of my orchestral works are among my finest compositions. The Festal march has the same smash hit potential as Autumn sunshine rag, being capable of generating terrific momentum, excitement and mass appeal. It is scored for a flexible orchestra, the minimum requirements being double woodwind, 4 horns, 2 trumpets, 3 trombones, tuba, timpani (2 drums) and strings. The score contains parts for a third set of woodwind, a third trumpet, one or two harps, a third drum and percussion, and I dare say parts for myriad further instruments could easily be written. As its title suggests, the Symphony-Suite in A major is an experiment in reverse stylistic progression, starting out as if to be a romantic symphony and ending as if it has been a baroque suite. I am not absolutely sure the experiment works (if only someone would try it!). Failing that, any one of movements I, II (the best) or IV may successfully be played on its own. The first movement of the Symphony-Suite is a splendid specimen of symphonic sonata form, which refuses to be shackled by any sense of formal boundaries of exposition, development and recapitulation: for example, the process of development goes on through most of the movement, rather than being confined to a central section. The second subject evolves gradually: after its eventual statement, first subject material comes back to bring the exposition to a big climax in the dominant key. When this passage returns in the tonic, it takes the music from a recapitulation, consisting merely of a statement of the second subject, through to a coda. The reminiscences of Dvorák’s New World symphony in the middle of this opening movement are the result of Dvorák’s first subject and mine having rising and falling arpeggios as a common feature. This passage should not be “pointed out” in performance because it fits naturally into the flow of the music, as does the melodic fragment from a piano intermezzo by Brahms that occurs twice in the next movement. The heading Intermezzo to this second movement is itself a Brahmsian touch. The music proceeds as the antithesis to the classical scherzo with two trios, its gentle progress being interrupted by two much livelier ideas. Note the passage for string quartet leading into the first scherzo: this is the first serious outbreak of chamber music in a work whose scale is throughout contracting, becoming more intimate. A rather sickly-sweet slow movement separates the intermezzo from the finale. Headed In the manner of a baroque dance movement, this – virtually a suite of dances in itself – derives its tri-trioid form from the corresponding movement of J S Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 1. I am unable to equate the main section with any specific baroque dance form, hence the rather cumbersome title. This leaves one more orchestral work for consideration, an extraordinary ‘Cello concerto in which the solo part requires such agile virtuosity that I suspect there is a viola (or even violin) concerto hidden inside, trying to make itself known. Formally, the piece is a multi-movement structure that plays without a break – fascinatingly, the question “how many movements” could be discussed until the proverbial cows come home. I think it unsatisfactory to define the work as a single movement on account of the intermezzo, devoid of the themes on which the rest of the concerto is based, which acts as a sort of deck-clearing before the piece enters its final, predominantly fugal stages (the main theme of the intermezzo is by an amateur ‘cellist school friend of mine who, on presenting me with his tune, suggested that it might fit into a ‘cello concerto). Slow movement (in which bassoon and tuba share the limelight with the solo ‘cellist), and scherzo and trio are also clearly defined, but elsewhere it is rarely obvious what constitutes a movement. How, for example, does one describe the first few minutes of the concerto? Here is certainly an introduction to (or exposition of) the whole work’s musical material – only the main theme of the scherzo and the themes of the intermezzo are absent – but is it a movement?