This must be at least 
                the third Leroy Anderson disc I’ve listened 
                to in a matter of months – not that 
                I’m complaining. If ever there was a 
                master of the genre it was Anderson 
                and even if it would be nice to hear 
                the Violin Concerto or the Piano Concerto 
                in C rather more than we do, that’s 
                still no reason to spurn the light miniatures 
                and pops that so wonderfully evoke both 
                time and place. 
              
 
              
The source here is 
                Cologne with the WDR Rundfunkorchester 
                under Pinchas Steinberg, a versatile 
                conductor. The recordings are not new 
                and I assume they derive from radio 
                broadcasts as they were made in 1988 
                and are now released in SACD format 
                – though I’ve only listened on a standard 
                set up. The programme is pretty standard 
                Anderson and the only question is how 
                blue the clarinets are in The Syncopated 
                Clock (answer; quite blue enough 
                for my liking) and how aerial and nostalgic 
                is the flute solo in Forgotten Dreams 
                (splendidly). Does the Sandpaper 
                Ballet work or is it generic – in 
                this performance it works well with 
                its soft shoe shimmy nicely approximated. 
                One of the highlights here – indeed 
                one of my favourite pieces of Andersonia 
                – is the Sarabande where he alternates 
                nobility and saucy wit and where the 
                strings’ earnestness is hilariously 
                undercut by the battery of insolently 
                puckish percussion. Maybe – just maybe 
                – we could get more incision once in 
                a while; possibly Jazz Pizzicato 
                could dig a shade harder. But there’s 
                filmic grace to the violins’ line in 
                The Waltzing Cat (and a nice 
                bark and feline spit at the end). There’s 
                also a pretty good spatial balance in 
                The Penny-Whistle Song where 
                the trumpets sound properly back o’ 
                town. We end with the effulgent and 
                well-orchestrated nostalgia of The 
                Golden Year. 
              
 
              
The notes are perfectly 
                serviceable. The cover booklet has 
                – wait for it – a couple, silhouetted 
                and tangoing whilst lit by the blue 
                ocean and sky. Look carefully and you’ll 
                see she’s just on the edge, held against 
                him; one false move and over she goes. 
                It’s noir-ish, with just a hint of Philip 
                Marlowe. And you just know he wouldn’t 
                do it. 
              
 
              
Jonathan Woolf