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Havergal BRIAN (1876 - 1972)
Symphony No. 1 The Gothic (1919-27)

Eva Jenisová (sop.), Dagmar Pecková (alto), Vladimír Dolezal (ten.), Peter Mikuláš (bass)
Slovak Opera Chorus, Slovak Philharmonic Choir, Slovak Folk Ensemble Chorus, Lúcnica Chorus, Bratislava City Choir, Bratislava Children’s Choir, Youth Echo Choir, Pavol Procházka (Chorus Master)
Slovak Radio Symphony Orchestra, Slovak Philharmonic Orchestra/Ondrej Lenárd
Rec. Concert Hall of Czechoslovak Radio, Bratislava, 29-31 March and 16-22 October 1989.
Reissue - first released on Marco Polo 8.223280/1
NAXOS 8.557418/9 [59'11 + 54'56 = 114'07]


First, for the impatient: the ‘quick fix’. You may already feel that your life would be incomplete without the challenge of a recording of this symphony on your shelf. If you don’t you should be, and if you do then the answer to your question is, ‘What are you waiting for? Go and get it’. I can’t imagine, with recording industry belts getting ever tighter, that Havergal Brian’s Gothic Symphony will ever be featured on BBC Radio Three’s ‘Building a Library’. In terms of legal recordings, this is Hobson’s choice, but fortunately one with which Mr. Hobson would be well pleased.

These days, ‘monumental’ is a word that’s so often associated with ‘cock-up’ and ‘disaster’ that it’s in danger of losing its ‘true’ meaning altogether. The original Latin word ‘monumentum’ meant simply ‘remind’. Somewhere along the line, ‘monuments’ became ‘lasting reminders’, and took on increasing substance and solidity because things that were made to last had to be built not just like tanks but better than tanks. ‘Size’ soon got hauled into the formula - the more imposing the monument, the more forcefully we mere mortals would be reminded (some things never change!).

It’s a small step for mankind to lift the architectural ‘monumental’ and splice it to less obdurate works of art or science. Such works came to earn the epithet if they were massive and permanent. No doubt you’ll have noticed, as I did, that the essential quality of ‘reminding’ seems somehow to have been swept under the carpet! If we were to haul it back out from its dusty dungeon and stick it back in where it belongs, most works described as ‘monumental’ wouldn’t be. Of Berlioz’s choral ‘twins’, the Grande Messe des Morts would remain ‘monumental’, whilst the rather more imposing Te Deum would revert to being merely massive.

That brings us, rather conveniently, to Havergal Brian’s First Symphony. In spite of its incorporating a setting of the Te Deum rather than the Requiem, Brian’s Gothic epitomises ‘monumental’, and it does so for all the right reasons. True, it does so for all the wrong reasons as well - the Gothic Symphony is in every respect a jaw-droppingly massive edifice that tends to put even Mahler’s Eighth into some sort of perspective. The forces required are so vast that they defeated, albeit only just, the combined resources of the two symphony orchestras on this recording, necessitating a few bits of nimble cheating on the part of the recording engineers.

Alright, then, so what are the ‘right reasons’? For those, we must delve briefly into the background - and listen to the music. Brian’s life story is almost beyond belief. By his mid-twenties, he had begun to make his name known. So far, so good. Yet, performances of his music by such as Wood and Beecham, and even the admiration of no less than Elgar, singularly failed to give him that all-important leg-up to fame and fortune. Performances of his music were well-received but these successes never, as you might reasonably have expected, seemed to get him anywhere.

Following the Great War, even the earnest interest of Richard Strauss, by now a respected elder statesman of the musical world, failed to ignite in the musical establishment any semblance of interest. In 1934, when Brian was already in his late fifties, Tovey admonished that establishment with the words, 'even for the recognition of his smaller works he is being made to wait . . . far longer than is good for any country whose musical reputation is worth praying for.’ I leave you to guess the establishment’s response!

Things got a little better in the 1950s when Robert Simpson, then a music producer for the BBC, took up the septuagenarian Brian’s cause in a practical way, putting at least some of Brian’s prodigious symphonic output where it belonged - into the concert halls. Again, performances were well - and sometimes even ecstatically - received, but still Brian’s ‘career’ steadfastly refused to become airborne. It remained that way right up to his death. To all intents and purposes, even now nothing has changed. I must confess, I am completely flummoxed: it isn’t as if Brian had committed the cardinal sin of writing film music and, as far as I am aware, he was never unconscionably rude to even a single soul.

The only reason that I can fathom is that he was not only a provincial, but also working class, and at the crucial period of his life as poor as a church mouse. I imagine that, in the eyes of the largely middle-class audiences of the day, performances of his music must have seemed a bit like hearing a lowly footman singing well in church. It’d be ‘Oh, bravo!’ at the time, but the next day they’d expect him to be back in his proper place, doing whatever it is that lowly footmen do. Mud wasn’t actually slung, you understand, but it stuck anyway. I might be wrong, but can you come up with a better conjecture?

Fortunately, for the audience that will, I am certain, one day not be able to get enough of Brian’s music, they must have bred ’em tough in the old Staffordshire Potteries. Brian certainly seemed to possess more than his fair share of that legendary working class ‘bloody-mindedness’. Where many a lesser mortal might have taken Bartók’s famous advice and ‘become a lawyer’ (it might have been ‘carpenter’, but who’s counting?), this - dare I say? - monumental neglect served only to further inflame his already incandescent desire to compose. He must really have loved his art, and I can only hope that he had Beethoven’s ‘inner ear’, because he never got to actually experience the flesh of most of the fruits of his labour.

Remarkably, considering that of all his - and pretty well everyone else’s - concert works it is the most costly to put on, he did get to hear the Gothic Symphony. Twice! The story goes that, after the first professional performance, Robert Simpson encouraged him to stand in acknowledgement of the rapturous applause of the audience that crammed every available square inch of the Royal Albert Hall. As he, understandably, creaked to his feet the 90-year-old composer said ruefully, ‘It doesn’t half get you behind the knees, all this sitting about.’ Thus it seems that he bore his moment of greatest triumph with the same phlegm as he endured that lifetime of shameful neglect.

At the last count, the Gothic Symphony has been performed a mere four times: the first one was essentially amateur, and thus an achievement, a labour of love, of truly staggering proportions. The last one, effectively a private, piecemeal performance, was this recording. It shook me when I realised that, in preparing to write this spiel, I’ve actually listened to the recording more times than the work recorded has ever been performed! I know, there are plenty of works that get a few performances, are recorded, and subsequently sink into obscurity. That’s how it should be. A piece gets its chance, and if it turns out to be - not to put too fine a point on it - unmitigated dross, then the bin marked ‘obscurity’ is exactly where it belongs. The key word, though, is ‘if’. Nobody in their right minds would call this music ‘dross’. Oh, it’s in a bin alright, but a bin labelled simply ‘too expensive’. Well, it’s high time somebody found the cash - the Proms, perhaps?

The key factor behind Brian’s inspiration seems to have been the Great War. Of course, we all know about the impact that this unprecedentedly widespread and bloody conflict had on artistic sensibilities - think of Elgar and Ravel, to name but two. Brian’s seems to have been a somewhat special case: he was one of those, neither directly involved in the fighting nor just supporting the war effort from the comparative safety of home. He enlisted alright, but an injury to his hand put paid to any aspirations of active service. He ended up in that grisly ‘no man’s land’, working in the hidden army responsible for clearing up the mess - in his case, recording the personal effects of the legions of the fallen.

Depending on experience and outlook, artistic response to the Great War tended to divide into two camps: those who mourned the passing of the old order, and those who aspired to a fresh start. I suspect that the former came from the upper end of the class ladder, the latter at the lower. Certainly, Brian was initially filled with optimism: his symphony was to be a sort of manifesto. It was to present the Gothic, when the Dark Ages were banished by a wholesale re-awakening of the creative urge, as a model for the Twentieth Century’s ‘brave new world’. Built like a great bridge, forged from the steel of the intervening musical developments, it would be a cathedral of sound, a paean to Man’s indomitable creativity. Brian wished to express his hope for the future through nothing less than a monument.

Somewhere along the line, things went awry: the symphony became the Monster to Brian’s Frankenstein. Brian, who was not at all religious, suggested that the Te Deum actually forced itself upon him, ousting his originally-intended setting of the end of Goethe’s Faust. On the face of it, this was no bad thing, as the Latin text was far more apposite to his ideas. However, it conspired with something else - the residual horror of his war-time experience that continually haunted him - to divert him from his intended path. The image is almost inescapable: already struggling to control, or at least contain, the colossal physical forces burgeoning within his ‘Monster’, ‘Frankenstein’ apparently found himself powerless to control of the metaphysics of his creation.

It all seems to hinge on the words non confundar in aeternum which, as in this CD’s booklet, are generally translated as ‘Let me never be confounded’. However, from what I can gather, it looks like this translation has two problems. Firstly, ‘never’ is a poor shot, because non qualifies not aeternum but confundar. ‘Never’ is not the same as ‘forever’, so at the very least the sentence means ‘Let me not be confounded in eternity’.

‘Confounded’ itself is a bigger problem. By, in effect, not actually translating the word, we lay it open to accustomed modern interpretation. Yet, when the words of the Te Deum were first set down, about 1500 years ago, I don’t think that the author(s) were trying to say ‘Let me not be puzzled or perplexed forever’ - after all, they were writing about Judgement Day, not the Times crossword. The original meaning of the word is ‘defeat’ (yes, I know that’s what the Times crossword does to most of us!) or ‘condemn’. Put it in the context of the preceding In Te Domine speravi, and you get something more like ‘In You, O Lord, I have trusted; let me not be damned throughout eternity’ - a far more potent supplication than the ‘usual’ translation suggests to modern ears.

I suspect that this deeper, archaic meaning is the particular aspect of the Te Deum that conspired with his wartime experiences. Having been up to his eyeballs, day in and day out, in the intimate effects of the ‘confounded’, the resonance of experience and words must have haunted him. I would guess that this is what caused the creeping corruption of his pop-eyed optimistic ‘Songs of Praise’. His expression of hope in the future increasingly became suffused with fear for the future. It makes me wonder, was this apparent manipulation of the creator by his creation down to some sort of ‘divine intervention? I can’t honestly say, but this I can say: I’m sure that the Gothic is all the better for it. Yet, somehow, Brian went further! Within the extraordinary sonic canvas of the Gothic, mingling with allusions to the past, we can hear what seem uncannily like predictions of possible futures - and for this very reason I am being very careful to avoid saying anything on the lines of ‘these bits are like Ligeti’, because in these bits, and sundry others, Brian has beaten them all to the punch! Moreover, from our standpoint, the symphony’s final, apocalyptic five minutes or so sound like a terrible prophecy - a sombre warning of just how fragile it all is.

This incredibly ambitious scenario matches even Mahler at his most vividly visionary. If the composer was, as we are told, beset by psychic demons and struggling to prevent the whole work blowing up in his face, then surely the Gothic must at best be seriously flawed? On balance, I would say ‘yes’ - but only inasmuch as Mahler’s Eighth is ‘seriously flawed’! I’m serious: to me, the degree of ‘perfection’ of any work is measured by the ratio of ‘achievements’ to ‘failings’ (however you care to define them). Part Two of Mahler’s Eighth is criticised for being episodic, yet those who make such criticisms never seem to suggest how Mahler might otherwise have approached the setting of an episodic text. The same goes for Brian’s First: his Te Deum is as episodic as Berlioz’s - or anybody else’s for that matter - and, while we’re on the subject, this is also true of the finale of Beethoven’s Ninth, the putative structural model for the Gothic.

High time, methinks, to prove the pudding. Let’s get the ‘reissue’ issue out of the way first. Introducing it in his ‘Review Corner’ on the Naxos website, David Denton declared, "Those who have the original disc can rest content that the sound quality remains unaltered." Well, I have, and it doesn’t. The tracks and timings may well be the same, but when I compared the openings of the two it was immediately obvious that they weren’t the same. The gruff, purposive tramping of the basses had become softened, almost emasculated. After some investigation, I had the answer on a minidisc: a copy the original ‘as is’ and the reissue with the digital gain cranked up by about 4.1 to 4.2 dB, and the latter had magically recovered its masculinity!

I wondered if they had hauled back the gain at the beginning to create a bit of headroom for extending the dynamic range later on. However, this was scuppered by further checks, which showed that the difference was more or less the same throughout. So, for some reason best known to Naxos, the digital resolution has been reduced. It’s curious, but nothing you need worry about: listening, I found it hard to tell the difference once I’d evened the two up.

In either incarnation, and considering the scale and complexity of the music, the recording quality is astonishing. There is a very slight ‘boxiness’ which may well have something to do with the vast legions of performers crammed like sardines into what is not exactly the world’s largest concert/recording venue - the choirs, apparently, had to sing in the stalls, as there was no room for them at the inn, or rather, the back of the platform! Strange to relate, though, this is compensated by a decent feeling of spaciousness in the acoustic, expansive but not too reverberant. Some might think that this music should have been recorded in a gothic cathedral such as Brian suggests in his music. This would be wonderful for a live performance (I wish!), but I don’t think it would do the music any favours for repeated listening on a recording.

Brian had particular requirements for the layout of his forces. In particular, he expected the four choirs to be antiphonally distinct, each with its own brass ensemble and set of timpani. I have to say that this is not overwhelmingly obvious on the recording, although to be fair they did try, but were hampered by limited elbow room - and insufficient brass! On the plus side, the multitudes of timpani do come up a real treat in the stereo image: if you enjoy the drumming in Nielsen’s Fourth, you’re going to be over the moon with this!

Another reviewer has stated that ‘some vital detail goes unpointed’, but fails to add a couple of vital qualifiers. Firstly, which vital detail that might be, amidst the seething mass of vital details some of which are bound to be swamped by the others. Secondly, how can we tell the difference? Considering the dearth of comparisons, this comment surely comes from a score-reader. Take it from me, this recording isn’t short on detail, pointed or otherwise, and it’ll be a long time before you’ve digested all the detail that you can hear and start hungering for the detail that’s unpointed. From a technical viewpoint, it’s more important to note that the sound is clearly articulated in the many quiet passages, and remains impressively composed through the massive outbursts. Students of the art of ‘microphony’ will be well pleased.

Satisfying as it may be during the purely orchestral music, what really pins back your ears is the sterling job the engineers did in capturing the voices, whether these be in intricate choral counterpoint, massive splendour, or the lonely solo soprano in the Judex Crederis movement. You’d have to search far and wide to find a more impressive choral recording

The lot of controlling the forces that nearly skittled the composer fell to Ondrej Lenárd - quite literally, as he was something of a last-minute substitute for Ole Schmidt. Maybe Schmidt would have done it better, we’ll never know, but Lenárd was nothing short of inspired. Faced with what must have seemed like an uncharted continent, Lenárd had two options: tread warily and play safe, or whip out his machete and get stuck in. Right from the outset, where the music ‘hits the ground running’, you can almost feel the machete cleaving the air, so palpable is the sense of urgent purpose. Yet, on arriving with almost startling suddenness at the first ‘clearing’, he cheerfully pulls up short and admires the view, letting us savour the cloying sweetness of Brian’s solo violin, languid on a sugary, shimmering, twinkling bed of rose-petals. All this - in the space of a mere two minutes! It’s here also that you already have the first inkling of Brian’s symphonic approach - the sentimental tune comes from a motif screamed out by the violins during the opening ructions. Once you’ve spotted that, several other motives immediately join the family, and before you know where you are you’re hooked. Like many before you, you’ll end up as a sort of ‘Flying Dutchman’, condemned forever to sail the seas of the Gothic in search of its symphonic secrets - confundar in aeternum, with knobs on! Never mind, there are far worse fates (I nearly said, ‘Worse things happen at sea’!).

Lenárd has already pointed up two vital details. Firstly, he has punched home forcefully the point that the familial themes share in both rip-roaring turbulence and melting tenderness, and so are going to play a big part in the integration of Brian’s vast canvas. Secondly, he has declared a boat-burning commitment to the music. As the music progresses, I more and more get the feeling I did about Bernstein’s first Mahler cycle: Lenárd believes absolutely in the music, and he’s not above taking a few risks in trying his utmost to convince us of its value. Passing detail, whilst by no means ignored, definitely takes second place to putting across the ‘big picture’.

The solo violin’s main subject expands, blossoming in orchestral spring - which is then disrupted by violent incursions of the percussive elements of the ‘introduction’. This whole exposition is superbly wrought, bringing interpretative ideas tumbling into your mind: destructive versus creative, the violent passions of creative rebirth, the chemistry of good and evil in the mind of Man, without which creativity becomes a sterile pastime, et cetera! At the other end of the movement, after a brief recapitulation from the violin, Lenárd whips up a frenzy of excitement leading up to Brian’s first truly theatrical gesture: the first appearance of the organ. Augmented by massed brass, it is just one short phrase, but vast, vaulting and ‘hollow’; echoing across the aeons it is the very sound of the space within a gothic cathedral. If the first movement represented ‘rebirth pains’, Lenárd seems to say, then this is the moment of rebirth. Maybe there could have been more Earth-shaking depth of organ-tone, but it is still utterly awe-inspiring.

Malcolm MacDonald accurately described the beginning of the second movement: ‘[It is] like a cortège approaching through the shadows of an immense, vaulted cathedral nave’. I’d add a small but significant qualification: make that a ‘funeral cortège’. Moreover, it’s one in which Brian seems to be lamenting every great man whose soul had left the body of his great works incomplete - or, through its protracted agony, he is reliving his nightmarish wartime job, counting out the countless lives of men through endless lists of tiny treasures, each of which was destined to shatter an entire family. From bewildered, sorrowing strings to an enraged mammoth screaming tight clusters of nerve-jangling, discordant bile, Lenárd leaves no punch pulled, dispensing grief wholesale.

The third and final orchestral movement starts out like a swirl of fresh air, admitted through the great doors of the cathedral, and dispelling the musty gloom. Lenárd makes light of the breeze, for all the world like a gossamer Bruckner scherzo! In the dizzy crescendo, he draws forward the woodwind’s theme, which not only clarifies the feathery figurations of the strings, but also presages the subsequent cosily aspiring horn motive, glowing like a candle in the darkness. This has a big part to play in the movement, in which a fit of the galloping gargoyles is ultimately confounded by something of a tidal surge of irresistible impetus, redoubled by ‘breakthrough’ modulations. It’s hard to avoid an image of the Dark Ages being summarily dispelled by the re-emergence of Man’s creative impulse. The origin of the horn motive, the seeming seed of enlightenment? First movement - and you really can’t miss it!

I’ve no idea of the politics of two symphony orchestras sharing a platform, but there must have been quite a kerfuffle sorting it all out: who’s going to be the leader, for a start! All the more credit to them that none of that inevitable politicking actually shows. They play as one, and it sounds as if they are giving their all to Brian’s music. The ensemble isn’t flawless, of course, and nobody would expect it to be in this pioneering first recording, of a symphony of such mind-boggling proportions that it has held a place in the Guinness Book of Records for as long as I can remember. What is completely unimpeachable is the incandescent fervour of the playing: you can feel a real sense of occasion in these first three movements, as if they believe in every note of this unfamiliar music, and have a missionary zeal for making you share their belief.

That leaves the ‘small’ matter of the final three movements, the setting of the Te Deum. I must confess that this is a much tougher nut to crack than the orchestral ‘introduction’, and I find that I am still wrestling with my musical nutcracker on this one. This doesn’t mean that it’s difficult to listen to - far from it, there is a wealth of extremely beautiful, awe-inspiring, and even savage music. That’s exactly the problem, albeit a nice problem to have. As far as the Te Deum is concerned, I’m still at the drop-jawed, gob-smacked stage - and I’m loving every minute of it! It’s like walking into a place like York Minster for the first time. You just stand and gawp, your mind trying to comprehend how anyone could have imagined, designed and constructed such a wonder with - well - just a few bits of paper, some rope, and only the kind of tools that you and I keep in the shed!

What does penetrate in no uncertain terms is the profound originality of the music. I find myself feeling humbled by the mind that conceived this vast sonic cathedral, an edifice that comes pretty close to rendering Berlioz’s Te Deum the equivalent of a village church (and I do not intend any disparagement of the Berlioz, which remains one of my favourite choral works). At the start, Brian pulls off another brilliant theatrical gesture, a real stroke of genius. To begin with, it all sounds so ordinary! Yet, all of a sudden, there are voices everywhere, a joyful clamour that would have had Charles Ives himself nodding in approval - and this is merely the first of an astonishing parade of choral pyrotechnics. Another theatrical stroke occurs just over two-thirds of the way through: a jaunty little march for a band of nine chirpy clarinets. This tune becomes the basis for a setting of the words ‘We worship Thy Name for ever’ which, in spite of its vaulting climax steadfastly retains its feeling of a happy band of wanderers, singing as they tramp along a country lane. Marvellous.

Having praised the orchestra(s) to the skies, I’ve left myself precious little headroom for the choirs, both adults and children. Yet, headroom is just what I must have, as their singing gives transcendent voice to that orchestral ‘missionary zeal’. They are utterly fearless, and they sing their socks off. As if their grip on the bewildering density of the ‘joyful clamour’ isn’t enough, their massed crescendo on a held chord at the end of the Judex Crederis has to be heard to be believed. What is so amazing is that these choirs, for whom Janáček’s Glagolitic Mass is, I presume, infinitely more familiar territory, seem to have taken to Brian’s English choral style - for, beneath all the startling originality, that’s just what it is - like ducks to water.

The soloists, poor souls, seem to have drawn the short straw. Brian’s Te Deum is definitely a choral showcase, as he gives the soloists precious little of the limelight: a quartet early on, then really only the bass (Dignare Domine) and the soprano (Judex Crederis) get a look in. Of these two solo parts, Peter Mikuláš sings with warmth, dignity, and not a little passion - and, for a Slavic bass, with commendable lack of excessive wobble, whilst Eva Jenisová sings her solo like an angel. Actually, given the thematic style of the passage, it’d be more accurate to say, ‘like a lark, ascending’. Heavenly.

The booklet - ah, the booklet! The track listings are exactly as for the original issue, right down to the incorrect timing for CD2, track 16, which my machinery insists is 5'31 rather than the printed 7'45. The original note, an invaluable discourse and synopsis by Malcolm MacDonald, has been edited down a little by Keith Anderson, but happily it isn’t a ‘hatchet job’ for economy at the printers’: the main loss is the musical examples and references thereto. Further joy can be had from the fact that there is a full text and translation - but be mindful of my ‘confounded’ caveat! Finally, there are background notes on the orchestras and conductor, three of the four soloists, and two of the seven choirs. If that sounds a mite remiss, take consolation in the fact that the original issue covers only the orchestras and conductor!

How do I sum up this enterprise? Well, the original issue was a triumphant success. Someone qualified that with ‘unexpectedly’, though I suspect that Marco Polo wouldn’t agree. If you’ve read this far, you are very likely someone who is enthralled by the symphony in all its manifestations. If so, it shouldn’t need me to tell you that, at Naxos’s asking price of a mere ten pounds sterling, the only possible reason you ever had for holding back is well and truly down the pan. If it had ever been given the airings that it truly deserved, Brian’s Gothic Symphony would now, at a conservative estimate, be universally acknowledged as one of the seminal works of the Twentieth Century.

I cannot convince myself that its continuing neglect is simply for financial reasons, because even now there are plenty of organisations who could afford to at least ‘turn it over’ once every few years - Marco Polo are not the world’s richest recording company, but they managed to record it. Yet this recording enshrines the only ‘performance’ of this work ever undertaken outside Brian’s native land, and that is a shocking disgrace. In a world where, we are told, ‘size does matter’, this symphony should be far more often heard as intended - in the flesh. That’s not just because it’s BIG, as big as any blockbuster movie - and a damned sight better bolted together than most of those - but because it is a profound and beautiful expression of Man’s loftiest thoughts and greatest fears. Now, what are you waiting for?

Paul Serotsky

see also review by Rob Barnett and John France

Very full details links from the Brian Website

Havergal BRIAN (1876-1972) CD 1 [63:14] The Tinker’s Wedding - Comedy Overture (1947-48) [7:18] Symphony No. 31 (1967-68) [13:23] Symphony No. 7 in C (1948) [42:16] CD2* [52:28] Symphony No. 8 in B flat minor (1949) [24:40] Symphony No. 9 in A minor (1951) [27:34] Royal Liverpool Philharmonic Orchestra (leader: Malcolm Stewart) Conductors: Sir Charles Mackerras and Sir Charles Groves* Recorded in the Philharmonic Hall, Liverpool, 3-4 May 1987 and No.1 Studio*, Abbey Road, London, 25-26 July 1977 CD1 digital recording; CD2 digitally remastered EMI CLASSICS (BRITISH COMPOSERS SERIES) 7243 5 75782 2 6 [115:42] reviewd by Rob Barnett


HAVERGAL BRIAN (1876-1972) The Complete Piano Music  Raymond Clarke (piano) Esther King (mezzo) Tessa Spong (speaker) Recorded at Potton Hall, Dunwich 19-20 June 1997   Minerva Athene ATH CD12 recording sponsored by the Havergal Brian Society 76:34 reviewed by Rob Barnett

The Havergal Brian Society Website on MusicWeb

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