Classical Explorations — July 2026

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Francis Poulenc
Concert champêtre (Version for Two Pianos)
I make no apology for featuring Poulenc yet again. Regular readers will know by now that he is one of my musical heroes, but this is very much a Poulenc not as you know him. The whole album is a wonderful exploration of a composer whose gift for memorable melody was matched only by his instinct for harmonic colour and drama. The playing throughout by Antony Gray and Rob Hao is exceptional. The contrasts in articulation are wonderfully judged – razor-sharp staccato balanced by a beautifully singing legato. Poulenc wrote remarkable concertos for organ, piano, two pianos and, featured here, harpsichord. Not an instrument one immediately associates with the twentieth century, its revival owes an enormous debt to the pioneering Wanda Landowska, for whom this concerto was written. Although best known in its original orchestral guise, the version heard here was arranged by Poulenc himself for two pianos. Far from feeling like a reduction, it reveals the astonishing craftsmanship that lies beneath the score. Stripping away the orchestra allows every line, harmony and rhythmic idea to emerge with remarkable clarity, while never diminishing the music's wit, elegance or irrepressible vitality. What elevates this recording even further is the artistry of Antony Gray and Rob Hao. Poulenc's original delights in the metallic bite of the harpsichord, the warmth of the orchestra and a dazzling array of instrumental colours. To recreate such a kaleidoscope of sound using just two pianos is an extraordinary achievement. Their command of voicing, colour and balance is simply breathtaking, constantly creating the illusion of a far larger ensemble. The technical demands are immense, yet everything sounds completely natural. By the final movement the pianos seem to have been explored to the very limits of their expressive and technical possibilities – singing, sparkling and dancing with astonishing ease. This is not merely an excellent performance of a favourite work; it is piano duo playing of the very highest order. It transported me back to the joy of first discovering Poulenc and has earned a place among the recordings I know I shall return to time and again.

Nancy Ives
Cellilo Falls: I. N'Chewana
I knew very little about Nancy Ives until this release appeared, and discovering new composers is exactly why I continue writing these monthly playlists. Those familiar with American music may immediately wonder whether she is related to Charles Ives. She is indeed part of the same extended family, being descended from his great-grandfather's cousin, but it is her own distinctive compositional voice that quickly captures the attention. Celilo Falls was once one of North America's great natural wonders. For thousands of years it was a meeting place for Indigenous peoples before disappearing beneath the waters of the Columbia River following the construction of the Dalles Dam in 1957. Ives doesn't simply depict a waterfall; she explores memory, loss and cultural identity. Her richly textured orchestral writing is wonderfully atmospheric. Long, flowing lines are interrupted by rhythmic figures, creating a musical landscape that is constantly shifting yet never loses its sense of purpose. Rather than painting obvious pictures, the score gradually immerses the listener in a place that no longer exists. This opening movement is a compelling introduction to a remarkable work, and one that rewards exploring in full – an 11-movement suite spanning around 45 minutes of deeply evocative music.

Mél Bonis
Il pleut!
Every time I hear the music of Mélanie Bonis, I become a little more convinced that she deserves a place alongside the finest French composers of her generation. Publishing under the name "Mel Bonis" allowed her work to be judged without immediately revealing that its composer was a woman, a sad reflection of musical life in late nineteenth-century Paris. Yet once you hear the quality of her writing, questions of gender quickly disappear. Il pleut! "It's raining!" is a delightful miniature. The delicate piano figuration sparkles with impressionistic colour, while the melodic writing remains unmistakably French in its elegance. Sometimes a composer doesn't need twenty minutes or a full orchestra to create a memorable atmosphere.

Arnold Schoenberg
Six Little Piano Pieces
Mention Schoenberg and many listeners instinctively prepare themselves for something intellectually demanding. That is precisely why I wanted to feature this work. I have long maintained that Schoenberg had a remarkable ability to transform an uncompromising musical language into something that speaks with genuine expression. These tiny miniatures pre-date his fully developed twelve-tone language and reveal a completely different side to the composer. Lasting only a few minutes in total, they compress an astonishing emotional range into remarkably little music. Both the writing and Paolo Ceccarini's performance on this new Haildon Classical release are full of colour and beautifully judged contrasts in articulation. This is intimate music that invites us to slow down, listen differently and discover a composer whose emotional voice is often overlooked.

Gabriel Fauré
Messe Basse: i. Kyrie
There are few composers who understood restraint quite like Gabriel Fauré. While many sacred works strive for grandeur, the Messe Basse speaks almost in a whisper. Written for upper voices and organ, it possesses a serenity that feels entirely natural, with scrumptious harmonies that invite quiet reflection rather than dramatic display. The work also has an intriguing history. It began life in 1881 as the Messe de l'Association des pêcheurs de Villerville, a collaboration with André Messager. Seeing Messager's name immediately transported me back to my student days, grappling, rather unsuccessfully, with his fiendishly demanding Solo de Concours for clarinet. It is amusing to think that the composer who caused me so much frustration as a student also played a part in creating music of such gentle serenity. That original version included a Gloria by Fauré, but when he revised the work twenty-five years later into the Messe Basse we know today, the Gloria was omitted. The accompanying booklet notes suggest it was withdrawn because Fauré considered it trop martial – "too martial". This beautiful new recording from Ad Fontes restores the liturgical balance by pairing the Mass with a contemporary Gloria by David Davies. Rather than imitating Fauré, Davies writes in a sympathetic style that complements the original with remarkable sensitivity. Beautifully sung by the Choir of Buckfast Abbey and exquisitely recorded, this is a serene, thoughtfully conceived release that captures both the intimacy and quiet radiance of Fauré's sacred music.

Dmitri Shostakovich
Symphony No.10, Op.93: ii. Allegro
Many years ago I heard the Philharmonia Orchestra perform Shostakovich's Tenth Symphony at the Royal Festival Hall. I remember leaving the concert hall feeling both exhilarated and emotionally drained. As the audience shuffled down the stairs afterwards, an elderly lady turned to her companion and remarked what "a lovely piece" it had been. I can still remember stopping in my tracks and wondering whether we had somehow attended different concerts. That exchange has stayed with me because, for me, the Tenth Symphony is anything but comfortable listening. Completed only months after Stalin's death in 1953, it emerged from one of the darkest periods of the twentieth century. Whether every story attached to the work is literally true almost seems beside the point. Shostakovich had spent decades living under a regime where a misplaced word – or a misplaced note – could carry devastating consequences. That experience permeates the music. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the ferocious second movement, often described as a portrait of Stalin. This is music that should be felt as much as heard. Its violence, fury and relentless momentum are not there simply to excite; they exist because the music has something profound to communicate. For me, this electrifying performance by the Berlin Philharmonic reminds us why music matters at all. It reaches beyond entertainment and into something far deeper, connecting us with history, with humanity and with emotions that words alone can never fully express. Kirill Petrenko and the Berlin Philharmonic capture that intensity magnificently. By the final chord I find myself feeling exactly as I did all those years ago – exhilarated, exhausted, and profoundly grateful that music can still affect us so deeply.

Tchaikovsky / Nakariakov
Andante cantabile for Flugelhorn and Orchestra
It was the sound that caught my attention first. Sergei Nakariakov has long been recognised as one of the finest brass players of his generation, yet what is most striking here is not dazzling virtuosity but the extraordinary beauty of his tone. The flugelhorn's mellow, vocal quality seems completely at home in Tchaikovsky's lyrical world, drawing the listener in from the very first phrase. Nakariakov has devoted much of his career to broadening perceptions of the trumpet family, demonstrating that these instruments are capable of remarkable warmth, subtlety and expressive depth. That vision is perfectly realised in this performance. Rather than feeling like an ingenious transcription, the music unfolds with such ease that it quickly becomes possible to forget the work was conceived for another instrument altogether. The Andante cantabile has always been one of Tchaikovsky's most heartfelt inspirations, and this performance preserves every ounce of its tenderness and quiet melancholy. Ashkenazy and the Philharmonia Orchestra provide a wonderfully sympathetic accompaniment, allowing the solo line to breathe naturally without ever overwhelming it. The result is beautifully balanced, with the orchestra and soloist speaking the same musical language. There is often a degree of scepticism surrounding arrangements of much-loved classics, but this recording never feels like an attempt to reinvent Tchaikovsky. Instead, it reveals another facet of music that was already deeply expressive, reminding us that the greatest melodies can transcend the instrument for which they were originally written.

Joseph Marx
Ein Herbstgesang
Joseph Marx remains frustratingly overlooked outside his native Austria, yet his orchestral writing possesses an unmistakable individuality. Listening to this piece this month, I was reminded of Lyatoshynsky's Grazhyna, which I featured last month. It was the richness of the orchestral palette that first drew me to Ein Herbstgesang ("An Autumn Song"), music of extraordinary sweep and atmosphere. Marx began sketching his Herbstsymphonie around 1920, completing it in November 1921. Rather than depicting specific events, he sought to capture the emotional world of autumn – harvest, ripeness, reflection, the fading of summer and the approach of winter. It was a subject that fascinated him throughout his career, inspiring several earlier works. The glowing orchestral textures are beautifully offset by delicate, shimmering passages that occasionally recall the sound world of Gustav Holst. Yet Marx's musical language remains entirely his own, combining sumptuous late-Romantic sonorities with long, sweeping melodic lines that at times evoke Bax or Vaughan Williams. Johannes Wildner and the Grazer Philharmonisches Orchester understand exactly how this music should breathe. Nothing is rushed and nothing feels overstated, allowing Marx's luxuriant orchestration to speak for itself. It is a performance that rewards patient listening and provides an ideal introduction to a composer who deserves to be heard far more often.

Albéric Magnard
Symphony No. 4 in C-sharp minor, Op. 21: II. Vif
Albéric Magnard remains one of French music's great undiscovered figures. Overshadowed by contemporaries such as Debussy and Ravel, his four symphonies occupy a fascinating world of their own, combining Germanic structural discipline with unmistakably French orchestral colour. This exhilarating second movement from the Fourth Symphony offers a perfect introduction. From the opening bars I was reminded of the scherzo from Dvořák's Sixth Symphony. The rhythmic vitality, buoyant woodwind writing and effortless sense of forward momentum create a similarly irresistible energy, while Magnard's orchestral palette adds a distinctive voice of its own. The music is dramatic and arresting, yet never loses its elegance, unfolding with a confidence that makes one wonder why his music is not heard more often. Jean-Yves Ossonce and the BBC Scottish Symphony Orchestra deliver a wonderfully vivid performance, relishing every shift in colour and character. There is a freshness to the playing that allows Magnard's craftsmanship to shine without ever sounding academic. If, like me, you enjoy discovering composers who deserve a far wider audience, this symphony is an excellent place to begin. It is exhilarating, richly orchestrated and leaves one wanting to hear the symphony in its entirety.

Douglas Lilburn
A Song of Islands
It is often said that every great nation eventually finds its own musical voice. For New Zealand, few composers were more influential in that search than Douglas Lilburn. Written in 1946, A Song of Islands is not a depiction of specific places so much as an expression of what it feels like to belong to them. Rather than telling a story, Lilburn paints an emotional landscape, capturing the vast horizons, changing light and profound sense of space that define his homeland. There are unmistakable echoes of Vaughan Williams and Sibelius in Lilburn's richly textured orchestral writing, yet the music never feels derivative. Instead, he absorbs those influences into something distinctly his own. Broad, noble themes unfold with remarkable patience, while moments of quiet reflection give way to passages of exhilarating grandeur. The result is music that breathes naturally, allowing the orchestra to evoke not only mountains and oceans, but also the solitude and optimism of a young nation discovering its artistic identity. James Judd and the New Zealand Symphony Orchestra give a deeply sympathetic performance that seems to understand this music from the inside. There is warmth, dignity and an unforced sense of direction throughout, allowing Lilburn's wonderfully spacious orchestration to shine. It is a work that rewards attentive listening and offers a compelling introduction to a composer who deserves to be heard far beyond the shores that inspired him.

Petr Eben
Musica dominicalis (Sunday Music): I. A Voice Crying in the Wilderness
Petr Eben's music has been familiar to me for many years. I was once asked to turn pages for the organist Stephen King during a recital at Brentwood Cathedral which included some of Eben's extraordinary music for the instrument. The request came barely a minute before the recital began, leaving me with no real opportunity to say no! It was a privileged place from which to experience the music, perched beside the console watching Stephen King at work, although I confess I spent much of the recital silently petrified that I’d get the page turns wrong. More recently, my work has led me to spend a great deal of time in the Czech Republic, prompting me to read more deeply into the country's remarkable twentieth-century history and, in particular, the years leading to the Velvet Revolution. Returning to Eben through that lens has been a fascinating experience. Imprisoned at Buchenwald as a teenager and later enduring decades of communist rule, he emerged not as a composer of anger, but of extraordinary spiritual conviction. His music possesses a quiet strength that seems to transcend the hardships of the age in which it was written. Curiously, the exact location of the première of Musica dominicalis appears to have been lost to history. Yet whenever I hear this music, I cannot help imagining it filling the immense Gothic space of St Vitus Cathedral within Prague Castle where Eben was organist. Whether or not Eben ever intended such a setting for this piece is almost irrelevant; the architecture, history and atmosphere of that extraordinary place seem somehow to belong to the music itself. Janette Fishell's performance captures every shade of Eben's remarkable writing on the magnificent C. B. Fisk organ in Auer Hall at Indiana University's Jacobs School of Music. Although recorded thousands of miles from Prague, I still find myself hearing this music within the soaring vaults of St Vitus Cathedral. Earlier, Shostakovich reminded us that music can bear witness to history through anger, fear and defiance. Eben reaches a similar destination by an altogether different path. His response is one of faith, resilience and quiet hope. It is music that rewards careful listening and reminds me that history is not only written in books; sometimes it is preserved just as powerfully in music.

Percy Grainger
Handel in the Strand
After everything that has gone before, there is only one way to end this month's musical journey – with a smile. Few composers knew how to raise one more effortlessly than Percy Grainger. Handel in the Strand is Grainger's wonderfully mischievous fantasy on what might happen if George Frideric Handel suddenly found himself wandering along London's bustling Strand. Rather than treating Handel with reverence, Grainger imagines him swept up in the excitement, his familiar Baroque gestures transformed into a vibrant, foot-tapping celebration of Edwardian London. It is exuberant, brilliantly orchestrated and impossible not to enjoy. After a month exploring music shaped by history, conflict and faith, it seems only right to finish with something that reminds us music can also be playful. Sometimes the greatest performances are not those that ask profound questions, but those that leave us humming the tune all the way home. Grainger's irresistible miniature does exactly that – a joyful curtain call to another month of musical exploration. Until next month, happy listening!