<<  -- 7 --  Wilfrid Mellers    

Howells, though an excessively modest man, was aware of the special quality of his unpretentious Lambert's Clavichord: which must be why, after Herbert Lambert had died prematurely, Howells added two new volumes of ten pieces each, now under the title of Howells's Clavichord. The second volume appeared in 1941, the third in 1961; the pieces, again addressed to composing friends, sacrifice a little of the bloom of the original set in being slightly longer and considerably more harmonically and texturally 'advanced'; indeed, some of the pieces are too complex to 'come off' on the frail old instrument. Even so, when I consider the pieces addressed to people with whom I was acquainted, some of them close friends, I suspect that the Howells's Clavichord volumes manifest deeper psychological insight. For instance, 'Patrick's Siciliano' precisely records Patrick Hadley's quirky Irishness and slightly sad whimsicality; 'Dart's Sarabande' distils the scholar and keyboard player's proud gravity in its spacious proportions, his severity in its high dissonance-rate, and a certain lordliness of demeanour. 'Rubbra's Soliloquy' (the longest piece thus far in either book) has the man's self-contained meditativeness, while reminding us, in its quite complex formality, that the composer in question was a symphonist, even if a 'religious' rather than an overtly dramatic symphonist. From the second book of Howells's Clavichord 'Ralph's Pavane and Galliard' honours Vaughan Williams by making him the only composer to be allotted two (paired) pieces, the music modelled on Byrd yet at the same time evoking VW's voice. 'Finzi's Rest' is the longest single piece in any of the three volumes; spaciously serene, it is, like Finzi's own music, nostalgic without being debilitating. 'Malcolm's Vision' (George Malcolm, harpsichordist and conductor) is another longish piece that manages to be simultaneously restful and alert; while 'Julian's Dream' (near-punningly addressed to Julian Bream, lutanist and guitarist) has a human down-to-earthness typical of the man, cunningly exploiting plucked string techniques appropriate to lutes and guitars. I didn't know Lennox Berkeley well enough to be sure that the skittishness of his piece fits the man; but I didn't know Howells at all, yet feel confident that the autobiographical piece in the original Lambert's Clavichord (modestly entitled 'H H his Fancy') is an accurate self-portrait -- a grave fugue that disciplines the waywardness of dreams and fancies, redolent of 'seventeenth century Melancholy' yet pertinent to any century, including ours.

All these pieces exert on me a rewardingly therapeutic effect. They might have that effect on you too: so buy this enduringly and endearingly haunting disc before it's deleted!