I've listened to Falstaff for the first time a few days ago. Interesting piece. I think it's as good as the Enigma Variations, or close anyway.

Now you see, that's really interesting. Falstaff is very highly regarded, I know; and yet it's one of those extremely rare things - a major piece of music by Elgar that I've never really been able to warm to. It's a while since I last listened to it; I'll blow the dust off it and try again.

It reminds me a bit of the Strauss tone poems.

I love Falstaff, I really think it is one of Elgar's finest works. But it is complex music, and it's very susceptible to unsympathetic performance.

Incidentally, I have followed your advice and bought The Spirit of England in the version you recommend. I'll let you know what I think of it when it arrives.

Good luck. At least the experiment won't leave you seriously impoverished.

The Spirit of England is preceded on the CD by the Coronation Ode which (unless you're a fan of the pomp & circumstance side of Elgar, and know it already) might be best left till later. I've always felt it was an odd coupling ...

Haven't had chance to give Falstaff another airing yet.

But now I have - Elgar's version:



I wonder how many times I've listened to this, in one version or another? Twenty times, maybe? More, even. I don't feel that with this latest listening I'm any closer to making any meaningful contact with it. Elgar's characteristic touch is everywhere, of course, and yet - it seems so restless and unsatisfying. Listening to it is like reading a novel by a favourite author, brilliantly written, and yet with unattractive subject matter. I suspect I just find the character of Falstaff a bore (as indeed I do), and that my failure to enjoy the music is because the music evokes him so successfully.

I see Elgar as a popular 'spokesperson' for what's referred to as a second English musical renaissance ('second', to distinguish it from the Tudor period), which began in the late 1800s. But it's the likes of Stanford, Wood and Parry that I credit with reviving English music and preparing the way, so to speak, for the greatness of Holst, Howells, Bax, Britten, Vaughan Williams, Tippet, Finzi and countless others who, for me, stand head and shoulders above Elgar.

What disappoints me most about Elgar - regardless of how much I enjoy some of his better-known works - is that I feel he lacked a unique voice. At times, you hear him sounding like Parry, then Stanford; even shades of Delius creep in. Many of his works seem to me littered with references to the music of those who went before him - despite the fact that he never studied composition with anyone.

I'm even prepared to venture that his lack of formal training may well have limited what he was able to achieve. Though of course, we mustn't dismiss what he did achieve. But to put him up there with Britten or Vaughan Williams? No, I think not.

FK

__________________

My classical music reviews blog: An everyman for himself

I think Parry's sadly neglected symphonies, from the second onwards, are full of little proto-Elgar moments - though I've never investigated to what extent Elgar might have been directly influenced by them. Even so, and much as I love them, Parry's symphonies surely pale in comparison to the two great Elgar symphonies? Elgar's symphonies (to focus purely on them in this instance) have sustained me for a lifetime in a way that only the greatest music can do. But it would be pointless to embark on one of those 'which is the greatest composer?' debates, wouldn't it? I would really hate to put Elgar in the boxing ring with RVW, Parry, Stanford et al, and ask them to slug it out.

The business of whether he had a unique voice, however, needs some comment, I think, if only because I personally regard Elgar as the single most distinctive musical 'voice' I know. These things are very subjective (short of a technical analysis that I wouldn't be capable of), but it seems to me that whereas Parry (say) leans heavily on Brahms's shoulders much of the time, with his own voice sometimes pushing through that, Elgar goes much further. The influences of others seem to be synthesised, through Elgar, into something entirely new. You couldn't have Elgar without Wagner, for instance (and of course one could say the same about any composer and his influences), but it seems to me that the influence of Wagner has been used as bricks and mortar to make a different kind of building altogether.

I love Parry's music, so I don't actually want to make these comparisons; but I could never think of it as life-changing stuff, whereas my entire involvement with classical music and its potential began with, and developed, through Elgar. His music has been a constant and really quite profound lifetime companion, and if it were as lightweight as you suggest, I don't think that would have been possible. I'd have 'seen through it' by now.

Elgarian, you might want to edit your post and requote me - I've substantially rethought my position on Elgar (or at least, rethought my post about my position on Elgar).

FK

Thanks for the tip off. I've added quite a bit to my post in response.

I thought I'd continue the process of talking about some of Elgar's most unfashionable works by taking a look at Caractacus. Although I've loved Elgar's instrumental music almost as long as I can recall, for a long time I was resistant to his choral works. But when the barriers between them and me finally fell, they fell with a vengeance; and Caractacus was one of my earliest and most delightful discoveries.

Is it a work of great genius? I'm not competent to say, but I don't think so. Is it packed with great tunes? Yes. Is it full of drama and interest? Yes. Is it ever performed these days? I doubt it, though there are two recordings available, each as a 2CD set. There's the Charles Groves/Liverpool Philharmonic version on EMI Classics at an irresistible bargain price:



and then there's the Hickox/LSO version on Chandos:



I don't really have a clear preference myself, but you can't go wrong with the Groves, if only because it costs so little (but still comes with a booklet containing all the words). Among the delights awaiting you are Eigen's beautiful 'At eve to the greenwood, we wander'd away'; the haunting 'Thread the measure' of the druid maidens; and the highly controversial but magnificent finale - more of which later. There's also (looking at the downside for a moment) a tune which reminds me irritatingly of 'Oh My Darling Clementine'!

Caractacus, however, is a work that's capable of extending into your life in an extra-musical way, simply because we know so much about how Elgar came to write it, and exploring the landscape that inspired it brings all sorts of extra insights into one's appreciation of the music. The British Camp, so-called, at the top of the Herefordshire Beacon in the Malvern Hills, is an ancient hill fort that (legend has it) was defended by Caractacus against the Romans. Would it not be possible, Elgar's mother had asked him, to write something about that? Here's the camp, in the distance, towards the right (you can see the earthworks encircling the summit), viewed from the Worcestershire Beacon, looking south:



Elgar walked the hills and the surrounding countryside and in the course of his walking, came across a small cottage called Birchwood Lodge, set among woodland a few miles north of the hills. He rented it, and much of the woodland-flavoured music in Caractacus was written there, or inspired by the location. The cottage is still there, somewhat changed, but very recognisable:



A great deal has been said and written about the finale of the work, dismissing the libretto (written by H.A. Acworth, not Elgar) as jingoistic. Certainly some of the words are hard to take, from the vantage point of the 21st century, though much of the criticism stems partly from a kind of chronological fallacy (there's no point in criticising someone for being a man of his time), and partly from a misunderstanding of Elgar's conception of British Imperialism and the chivalric ideal. But if you really want to get to the heart of the matter, try doing what I did. Climb to the top of the British Camp at late afternoon, taking a portable player with you, and a recording of Caractacus, and watch the sunset, from the summit, while listening to the finale. If the breeze up there doesn't make your eyes water, the music will.

I listened today to recordings of Bax's first two symphonies (the late Bryden Thomson in charge of the London Philharmonic Orchestra on Chandos - thoroughly recommended). And in between marvelling at Arnold's clarity of orchestral textures, it occurred to me why it is that Elgar, for me at least, lacks a unique musical voice.

The reasons are three-fold, actually. Firstly, Elgar (when in symphonic mode - and I include the Violin Concerto in this) could write rather densely. A similar charge might be laid, incidentally, at the door of Rachmaninov (and I'll suggest another connection between these two composers in a moment). I've heard such density in Elgar's orchestral writing defended as the composer being consciously 'complex', even 'sophisticated'. If this is true, then I throw up my hands and confess I simply don't 'get' it.

But listening to Bax earlier today confirmed for me why arguing for Elgar's complexity and sophistication just doesn't hold up. To be blunt, there's almost a clumsiness in Elgar's treatment of orchestral voices, as though he wants every player to feel included. The first movement of the Second Symphony (a work I generally dislike) and the first movement of his First Symphony (a work I genuinely LOVE), both seem to suffer from a lack of 'air' around the thicker orchestral passages. The music is crying out for lucidity; and it sounds, at times, as though the whole ensemble are trying to play at once. This is what makes me wonder if Elgar wouldn't have benefited from formal compositional training.

The second of my reasons has to do with what I hear as Elgar's rather 'backward-looking' sound. Never mind that his marvellous First Symphony was hailed by Richter as the greatest modern work by the greatest modern composer (or somesuch). There are swathes of Elgar's music which to my ears hark back to the sound-worlds of Parry and Stanford. I'm not suggesting this is deliberate imitation; more that Elgar naturally absorbed the idiom of his forebears and couldn't help but write in a way that reflected at least part of their achievements. It's here that my other Rachmaninov connection comes in. Neither he nor Elgar wrote intentionally in a style that flew in the face of the emerging Modern period in serious music - they simply couldn't write otherwise. Not a criticism, just an observation.

My third reason is the one which, IMO, seals the issue of Elgar's lack of a distinctive voice. Let's go back to Bax for a moment. Or indeed, to Britten. Or Walton. Or even Vaughan Williams. What do you notice about their music? What I notice is that all of these men were capable of expressing their emotions honestly through their writing. They didn't hold back, whether dealing with romance, or terror, or humour, or whatever other emotions can be found in their scores. They gave it to us as it felt to them. At least, this is the way I hear things. But not so Elgar.

This old Edwardian gent epitomises the English 'stiff upper lip'. There's far too much reservation in his music where emotions are concerned. And where I do find something emotional, it usually sounds contrived. Yes, the slow movements in the first two symphonies are heartbreakers. True, the Violin Concerto's andante can tug at one's heart. Conceded, the first movement of the Cello Concerto is racked with emotional intensity (I'll let Elgar off here: I think this is a good example of him genuinely letting his guard down). And of course, it's a cold heart indeed that's not warmed or stirred by either the Introduction to the First Symphony, or Nimrod from the Enigma Variations.

But listen more carefully. Doesn't it sound like all this 'emotion' is a bit too calculated? Like there's been a decidedly self-conscious attempt to create emotion, rather than simply express it? To me, this insincerity (if that's what it is) loses Elgar points. Especially when such contrivances are added to my other two reasons above.

What I hear in Elgar is a composer who undoubtedly had his triumphs, but who - when weighed against giants like Britten and Vaughan Williams, or compared with geniuses like Bax, Holst, Howells and yes, even Finzi - possessed a musical voice more artificial than authentic. Had he let loose his feelings, studied compositional technique with the greats who came before him, and perhaps also incorporated a little of the idiom that replaced the one to which he instinctively clung (despite the fact that it was disappearing rapidly), Elgar may have become for me a composer with a voice so unique that no matter which composition of his I heard, I could say instantly, 'What a distinctive sound that Elgar had.'

Just for the record, I didn't suggest Elgar's music was 'lightweight'.

FK

__________________

My classical music reviews blog: An everyman for himself

If anyone's interested I'm playing co-principal bass on this recording of the 'Introduction and Allegro' made in 2004 with Chris Warren-Green.
http://www.borders.co.uk/cd/various-...hens)/2257658/

I find myself in a difficult position for several reasons.

First, I have no desire (even if I had the ability) to defend Elgar's music. My strong inclination is not to defend it, but to celebrate it.

Second, I feel very uneasy about making comparisons (favourable or otherwise), with other English composers. When I say that I find the music of Bax and Finzi almost completely uninteresting (though in different ways), I mean no disparagement to these men. I merely mean that I don't 'get' it. I'm telling you a lot about about me, and not very much, if anything, about them.

Third - and most importantly - I've long been convinced that almost any intuitively-arrived-at opinion (favourable or unfavourable) about any artist can be defended by what seem to be rational reasons, but where really the underlying assumptions have been chosen (perhaps unconsciously) so as to support the defended position and make the outcome inevitable. It's possible, for example, to make an excellent case for Constable to be one of the greatest English painters, and perhaps even the greatest. It's equally possible to argue convincingly that his art is parochial and narrow. The conclusions of all art criticism are always dubious. For me, its only value lies either in the criticism itself (where it rises to the level of great art, such as in the writing of Ruskin), or (and this is most important) in its ability to send the reader back to the work under discussion, and perhaps engage with it more meaningfully as a result.

Let me take one of your comments to extend this:
You said yourself that this is an observation rather than a criticism, but I'd go further. I see it as a strength; it's one of the things I most admire in Elgar's music. It's part (not all) of the reason why the feeling underlying his music runs so deep. But then, this is exactly the kind of thing that I would admire. Like all of us, I presume, I inhabit several worlds. One important one is the world of science - based in the present, looking forwards; another equally important one for me is the world of nineteenth century scholarship, based in the past, looking backwards. Indeed, one part of me is saturated in the art of the nineteenth century - the world of the Preraphaelites, Ruskin, and Parry. These things are part of the fabric of who I am, as I face my own trials of the present. So it's hardly surprising that I find a kindred spirit in Elgar, whose music is filled with his Arthurian, chivalric longing, his sense of place in history, his response to the world as it changed around him. All these things come together in works like The Spirit of England, which squarely face the horrors of the present in the context of the broken ideals of the past. The later works - the chamber music, the cello concerto, and so on - are (among other things, I'm sure) profound meditations upon the consequences of all that.

So, to quote you again:
When you say this, I have no way of understanding what you mean. There's control, yes, as there must be in all great art (otherwise we just get a puddle), but reservation? I can't hear that. I can't hear any reservation in the restless seeking that goes on in the (surely extraordinary?) cadenza of the violin concerto. So much of Elgar runs so deep, far deeper than tears, for me. The love of the land and its history; the bittersweet anguish of his (and our) existence; the longing for things (and people) just out of reach; the almost despairing hope for some kind of resolution; the moments of bombast when we think we've cracked it, but deep down we know we haven't really; the aching for beauty, true companionship and acceptance. I find all these in Elgar, over and again, like no other composer. Their presence in the great works (and clearly we do agree, thankfully, that some are indeed great), lends interest (for me) to almost all the lighter, more insubstantial works, just because of the occasional glimmers of priceless jewels that one gets.

When a composer's music touches your soul like this - and you must know this yourself, with regard to other composers - no amount of arguing over whether this is great music or not is going to get anywhere. You reach a point where you just know what you know; and take refuge in Wittgenstein: 'Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent'.

One thing to keep in mind when comparing Elgar to other British composers of his time (MacKenzie, Parry etc) is that he was more European. His whole musical language seems more robust and tutonic than the twee Suites of Parry and flighty tone poems of Makenzie and Bantock. Playing Elgar you get the impression that you are playing something by Richard Strauss. Harmonically E. is way ahead of his contemporaries in England, his handling of the string band is infinitely superior to what was knocking around at the time despite the misconception that english string writing dates from Handel. It took a revolution (of which Elgar was not really a part because he was so far in advance of what was around him) for English music to catch up to him. I'm talking about the English Second Musical Renaissance. Howells, Vaughan-Williams, Holst etc. Had E. as a role model for 20 odd years before even going to college! It's not really pertinant to compare E. with Finzi since the latter is two musical generations later than Elgar. (I'm another two generations down the line from Finzi being a student of Kenneth Leighton but that's another story)
Elgar's music will always be taken out of context because it's so hard to realise the total poverty of the English music scene at his time. (Think Gilbert and Sullivan and then imagine Wagner popping up out of nowhere!)
Cheers
FC