Damian Thompson

Just two weeks ago I was ready to cancel my subscription to Apple Music. I’d stumbled across its ‘Composer Essentials’ – a list of 100 composers so significant that they merit their own curated playlists. It includes Bonds, Boyle, Caccini, Dawson, Dett, Perry, Poldowski, Sohy, Strohl and Walker. If those names don’t ring a bell, how about the composers who are missing? Albeniz, C.P.E. Bach, Bellini, Berg, Bizet, Borodin, Chabrier, Kodaly, Martinu, Messiaen, Mussorgsky, Nielsen, Poulenc, Schoenberg, Walton, Weber and Webern. See what I mean? The ‘Essentials’ list is stuffed with DEI hires. Which – an analogy with Cambridge University comes to mind – does no favours to the black and women composers who deservedly feature in it, such as Joplin and Beach.

Why are filmmakers so interested in nuns? They’ve been exploring the subject for more than a century, which might seem odd, given that real-life dramas in convents are mostly confined to quarrels about the washing-up. But celluloid nuns are a different matter. As early as 1922, in the Swedish silent movie Häxen, a nun reaches for a spiked leather belt before leading her sisters in a demonic dance. That’s the beginning of one stereotype, the nun as sadomasochistic hysteric, which reached its apogee in Ken Russell’s The Devils (1971).

I’ve been listening to a symphony that I would describe as an almost perfect masterpiece by a composer of towering importance. But until last month I’d never heard it. Most music-lovers would struggle to identify the piece; most orchestras have never performed it and have no plans to do so. We can only be talking about a symphony by Joseph Haydn. He wrote 104 of them, plus two or three others that didn’t make it into the catalogue. For that reason alone there aren’t going to be many opportunities to hear the less popular ones. Which raises the question: what makes a Haydn symphony popular? The short answer is: a nickname. That’s not surprising. The Farewell, the Hen, the Clock and the Military play tricks that invite affectionate titles.

How do we evaluate Hyperion’s Romantic Piano Concerto series, which over a period of 35 years recorded more than 200 works for piano and orchestra? Was it one of the glories of the catalogue or a repository of works whose ambitions exceeded their achievement? The answer, of course, is that it was both. The paradox is unavoidable. You can’t assemble a giant collection of mostly forgotten concertos on the assumption that they all deserve to be famous – which, to be fair, Hyperion doesn’t claim: the liner notes often concede that a piece ‘perhaps understandably failed to secure a place in the repertoire’ or some such euphemism. But they may deserve to be recorded. Keyboard pyrotechnics can be their own reward, compensating for vapid melodies or structural lumps.

Ann Lee was a sharp-tongued woman from the back streets of 18th–century Manchester, celebrated for put-downs worthy of Coronation Street’s Bet Lynch. But instead of calling time on regulars at the Rovers Return, she announced that it was closing time for the whole of humanity. As a young woman Ann had joined a maverick Protestant sect that became known as the Shakers, or ‘Shaking Quakers’. In fact their shaking was the least of it: they howled, gurned and gibbered while flirting with the notion that God would return to Earth in the form of a woman. All sexual activity, even between man and wife, was forbidden.

‘You play Bach your way, and I’ll play it his way.’ That remark by the Polish harpsichordist Wanda Landowska is often described as an ‘infamous put-down’, but it was really just a playful quip directed at Pablo Casals after they disagreed about trills. Anyway, the line has been running through my head all week because I’ve been listening to a recording of the Goldberg Variations – Wandowska’s signature piece – by a pianist who was quite determined to play them her way, not Bach’s. Maria Tipo was born in 1931 and died last year – the same dates as Alfred Brendel, though it’s hard to think of two pianists with less in common. In her heyday she was promoted as ‘the Neapolitan Horowitz’.

In the early 1970s my father moved offices and I was plucked out of my cosy prep school in Surrey to land in the eccentric surroundings of Presentation College. My new school’s modern block was surrounded by decaying Edwardian villas occupied by Irish teaching brothers with impenetrable accents. There was a broken aeroplane on one of the lawns; I never found out how it got there. Talk about a culture shock. Already I was besotted with classical music; to say that the brothers didn’t share my enthusiasm is putting it mildly. There wasn’t a flicker of interest in eight years – something that puzzled me until I read Thomas Day’s book Why Catholics Can’t Sing, which argues that, in the Irish diaspora, highbrow music stirs folk memories of English colonial occupation.

The French lutenist Charles Fleury, Sieur de Blancrocher, is one of those unfortunate historical figures who are chiefly remembered because of how they died. He was climbing the stairs to his apartment near the Louvre after a court dinner in November 1652 when he slipped, fell head over heels and was dead a few hours later. We don’t know, though people have wondered, whether the wine was to blame. Only one piece of music by him survives, and he would probably be forgotten if he hadn’t been memorialised in several tombeaux – slow memorial dances – by royal composers, one of whom was a young harpsichordist whose genius is only now being fully recognised. Louis Couperin (c.1626-1661) will always be overshadowed by his nephew François (1668-1733).