Classical Explorations — June 2026

Borys Lyatoshynsky
Grazhyna, Op. 58
Often described as the father of modern Ukrainian classical music, Borys Lyatoshynsky lived through some of the most turbulent events in European history and developed a musical language that combined late-Romantic richness with a distinctive modernist edge. While his contemporary Shostakovich became a household name in the West, Lyatoshynsky's reputation remained largely confined to Eastern Europe for many years. From the first bars of this wonderful tone poem, there is something deeply unsettling in the atmosphere. Dark, brooding orchestral sonorities emerge from the depths, creating a sense of mystery and foreboding. The music unfolds through long, searching lines that drift through a vivid landscape tinged with unease. The harmony never quite settles and beneath the surface one senses something sinister waiting to reveal itself. Written in 1955, Grazhyna is a symphonic poem inspired by Adam Mickiewicz's epic tale of a Lithuanian heroine who sacrifices herself in defence of her homeland. It is music of grand narrative scope and a rather wonderful recording of it to boot. Released very recently, this opening section is all we hear in the pre-release, so we will have to wait a little longer for the complete work. The direction from Dalia Stasevska and the BBC Symphony Orchestra is absolutely superb. Stasevska continues her admirable commitment to championing unfamiliar and underperformed repertoire. The long, winding woodwind solos, particularly those for cor anglais, add something magical to the piece. Within moments I found myself completely absorbed by the alchemy of a compelling score, a conductor firmly controlling the tiller and a world-class orchestra. The opening has an almost cinematic quality, not in the modern Hollywood sense, but in its ability to paint vivid emotional images and suggest an unfolding drama without a single word being spoken. At times I was reminded of Bernard Herrmann, whose film scores possessed a similar gift for creating atmosphere through dark harmonies, psychological tension and searching melodic lines. If the remainder of Grazhyna proves to be as compelling as this extraordinary opening, I suspect I may have discovered a composer whose music I should have explored much sooner.

Augusta Read Thomas
Solstice Ritual, Homage to Varèse and Ravel for 14 Virtuosi: III. Bell Prayers
This was my first encounter with the music of Augusta Read Thomas and I was immediately struck by the way musical ideas pass seamlessly between instruments of contrasting timbre. Bell Prayers is the final movement of a three-movement chamber suite. Inspired by the sounds of Varèse and Ravel, it creates a vivid sound world rich in percussion, shimmering sonorities and constantly shifting instrumental combinations. Augusta Read Thomas (b. 1964) is an American composer educated at Northwestern University, Yale University and the Royal Academy of Music in London. The bells and metallic percussion are perhaps the obvious draw here, not least because of the title, yet it is their interaction with the harp and the long, flowing violin lines that gives the music its most captivating textures. These bright, shimmering sonorities run throughout the movement, creating an atmosphere that is both mysterious and reflective. The writing feels carefully crafted, with individual instrumental colours emerging from and disappearing back into the ensemble, all superbly realised in this excellent performance. The influence of Varèse can perhaps be heard in the prominence of percussion, while the sensitivity to colour and detail occasionally brings Ravel to mind. Yet despite these influences, the musical voice remains unmistakably her own.

JB Dunckel
Ballade oiseau (Version for Flute and String Quintet)
After the intensity of the last piece,  Ballade oiseau provides a welcome palate cleanser. Written by JB Dunckel, best known in his duo group Air, this is music that places atmosphere and colour above complexity or drama. Scored for flute and string quintet, the work unfolds with an easy naturalness. The flute sings long, lyrical lines over gently shifting string textures, creating a sound world that is calm, reflective and quietly engaging. What particularly caught my ear was the audio engineering. Rather than presenting the ensemble in a traditional classical manner, the recording draws out a fascinating range of colours and sonorities from the flute and strings. The result feels closer to an ambient or cinematic soundscape, where the character of the sound itself becomes an integral part of the musical experience.

Robert Schumann
Sängers Trost, Op. 127 No. 1 (arr. Steven Isserlis)
It was the gorgeous playing of Steven Isserlis on this track that drew me to write about it. His sound is instantly recognisable, with a warm, rich tone that seems perfectly suited to this music. I also like it when a piece catches us unaware: here, a delightful Schumann song transformed into something quite special for cello and piano. The vocal quality remains entirely intact and is played with extraordinary care and sensitivity. The accompaniment is performed on an 1851 Érard piano, whose lighter, more transparent sound world differs markedly from that of a modern concert grand. The result brings wonderful clarity to Schumann's textures and creates a performance that feels less like a virtuoso display and more like an intimate conversation between two musicians. It is a short piece, but one of considerable beauty. If you enjoy this, there is also an equally fine version of Gounod's Ave Maria at the end of the album, alongside two substantial Schumann sonatas, all expertly arranged by Isserlis. For me, this recording is a superb example of true artistry, where the arrangements, instruments, performances and recorded sound combine to create something genuinely special.

Marco Uccellini
Sonata over Canzoni, Op. 5 No. 1 in D major "La Musica"
There is something wonderfully immediate about this sonata by Marco Uccellini, one of the most innovative violinist-composers of the early Baroque. His works stand at a fascinating point in musical history, when the violin was beginning to emerge as a true solo instrument rather than simply one voice among many. The playing of Conor Gricmanis is wonderfully expressive and full of character, combining technical assurance with an effortless sense of freedom. There is a naturalness to the phrasing that makes even the most elaborate passagework feel conversational, while the tone itself is so still. It was this quality that shifted my listening away from the mechanics of the performance and allowed me simply to enjoy the beauty of the instrument. In a work that could easily become a display of virtuosity, Gricmanis instead draws attention to the music itself, revealing both its elegance and charm with understated confidence.

Andrzej Panufnik
Violin Concerto: II. Adagio
I like the contrast here from the early Baroque fiddle to this twentieth-century violin concerto. Written in 1971 at the request of Yehudi Menuhin, the music possesses a quiet intensity that immediately beckons the listener. This beautiful Adagio unfolds slowly and organically, with long, arching lines emerging from a hushed orchestral backdrop. Yet beneath the surface there is a constant sense of movement and purpose. The music feels almost like a stage whisper – never raising its voice, but charged with energy and intent. Panufnik's life was as extraordinary as his music. During the Second World War he survived the devastation of Warsaw, performing in underground cafés while much of the city's cultural life was systematically destroyed. Following the war he became one of Poland's most celebrated composers, only to defect to Britain in 1954 after growing increasingly frustrated with the restrictions imposed by the communist regime. He rebuilt his career from almost nothing and eventually became one of the most respected figures in British musical life. What makes this Adagio so compelling is its absence of unnecessary gesture. Every note feels carefully placed and every phrase purposeful. The result is music of emotional honesty and quiet power, proving that intensity does not always require volume.

The Wong Janice
Cello, City, Sky
Among this month's listening, Cello, City, Sky stands as something of a wild card. It inhabits a very different world from the tone poems and concertos that surround it, yet its quiet sincerity intrigued me. The Wong Janice is a Hong Kong-born cellist, composer and multidisciplinary artist whose work blends classical traditions with contemporary influences. Her music is often introspective and atmospheric, drawing on personal experience to create sound worlds that are both reflective and emotionally engaging. The solo cello line is reflective, allowing the instrument to sing over a spacious backdrop. Listening to it, I was reminded of my encounter last year with Hania Rani's Non Fiction (November 2025). Although the musical language is quite different, both artists seem comfortable inhabiting a space between classical music, ambient soundscapes and broader contemporary influences. Neither appears especially concerned with traditional boundaries, instead creating deeply personal musical statements that connect directly with the listener. In an age when classical music encompasses an ever-widening range of voices and influences, Cello, City, Sky serves as a reminder that some of the most affecting musical experiences can arise from the simplest of ideas. Like Rani's work, it invites reflection rather than demanding attention, and I found its quiet honesty all the more persuasive for that.

Mikalojus Čiurlionis
In the Forest
One of the pleasures of maintaining a listening blog is occasionally stumbling across a composer who is entirely new to me. Such was the case with Mikalojus Konstantinas Čiurlionis. Widely regarded as one of Lithuania's most important composers, he left behind a surprisingly small body of music. The opening of In the Forest immediately drew me in, beginning almost imperceptibly before accumulating weight and momentum as layers of orchestral texture emerge from the depths of the orchestra. Like Strauss's Also sprach Zarathustra, the music seems to grow organically from near silence, though Čiurlionis colours his musical landscape with richer, more chromatic harmonies, creating an atmosphere that feels both mysterious and inviting. Rather than telling a specific story, the music unfolds naturally, allowing ideas to emerge from the orchestral fabric with an almost improvisatory freedom. There is a sense of vastness throughout the work, as though one is wandering through an immense landscape where every turn reveals a new vista. The score is richly atmospheric, yet never feels directionless, its long spans sustained through a remarkable command of orchestral colour and texture. This recording also introduced me to the Lithuanian National Symphony Orchestra, an ensemble I have encountered only rarely. Their playing is deeply impressive. The strings possess both warmth and depth, while the woodwinds bring a distinctive colour and character to the score. Most impressive of all is the orchestra's ability to sustain the work's long musical lines and gradual climaxes, resulting in a performance of atmosphere and conviction.

Nobuo Uematsu
Merregnon: Heart of Ice: Kjugo, the Curious Wooden Robot
Whenever I see the London Symphony Orchestra attached to a recording, my ears immediately prick up. This is, after all, the orchestra whose sound helped define some of the most iconic film scores ever written. From Star Wars, Superman and Raiders of the Lost Ark to Harry Potter, generations of cinema-goers have unknowingly become familiar with the LSO's unmistakable sound through the music of John Williams and many others. The orchestra has recorded the soundtracks to more than 200 films, making it one of the most celebrated recording ensembles in the world. That pedigree makes this recording all the more intriguing. The wonderfully eccentric title, Kjugo, the Curious Wooden Robot, sounds as though it belongs in a fairy tale. The piece comes from the fantasy world of Merregnon, brought vividly to life by Nobuo Uematsu, best known for his legendary scores to the Final Fantasy games. Despite its playful title, there is nothing superficial here. Uematsu possesses an extraordinary gift for melody and atmosphere, creating music that is cinematic in the very best sense. The orchestration glitters with colour, while beneath the surface lies a sense of wonder and innocence. It is easy to understand why music such as this has helped elevate video game scores into a serious artistic medium in their own right.

Frank Ticheli
An American Elegy
As Chair of BASBWE, I am naturally drawn to wind orchestra repertoire, but only when the music itself justifies the attention. Too often, the medium is judged by works that rely on sheer volume and weight of sound rather than imagination, colour and craftsmanship. Frank Ticheli's An American Elegy stands as a powerful reminder of what the wind orchestra can achieve in the hands of a composer who truly understands the ensemble. Written in memory of those affected by the Columbine High School tragedy, the work carries an unmistakable emotional gravity. Ticheli shapes a musical narrative of remarkable dignity. The harmonic language is rich and distinctive, unfolding naturally through a series of beautifully judged transitions that give the work an organic sense of growth and direction. What impresses me most is Ticheli's instinctive understanding of wind sonorities. Every section of the ensemble has a meaningful role to play, creating textures of transparency and balance rather than a single, undifferentiated mass of sound. Individual lines emerge and recede with purpose, allowing the listener to appreciate the character of each instrumental voice while never losing sight of the broader musical argument. An American Elegy is a reminder that the finest wind orchestra repertoire deserves to be judged alongside the very best music written for any ensemble.

Marko Nikodijević
Absolutio. Postludium für Orchester
One of the great pleasures of maintaining a listening blog is allowing curiosity to lead the way. While many of the major releases inevitably arrive with impressive marketing campaigns and carefully planned publicity, some of the most rewarding discoveries happen when I wander off the beaten path in search of something unfamiliar. I enjoy exploring music from different countries and traditions, often following little more than a thread of personal interest. Recently, that thread led me towards Serbia. My surname, Lolin, has Serbian roots, with family connections stretching back to the Vojvodina region, and it occurred to me that while I have spent years exploring music from across Europe and beyond, I knew surprisingly little about contemporary Serbian composers. That seemed an omission worth correcting. The first piece to catch my attention was Absolutio. Postludium für Orchester by Marko Nikodijević, and what a discovery it proved to be. From the opening moments there is an unmistakable sense that this is music speaking in a contemporary voice, yet one that remains engaging and communicative. The orchestral textures shimmer and shift with remarkable imagination, creating a sound world that feels fresh, inviting and constantly in motion. What struck me most was the sheer vitality of the writing. There is an energy running through the score that keeps the listener alert, balanced by moments of atmosphere and reflection. The music never feels content to stand still; instead, it unfolds with purpose and direction, revealing new colours and details at every turn. The performance here is equally impressive. The playing combines precision with tremendous commitment, capturing both the sharp edges and the broader sweep of the work. There is real vigour in the orchestral sound, allied to an attention to detail that allows Nikodijević's distinctive musical language to shine through. If this piece is any indication of the richness of contemporary Serbian composition, then I suspect I have only just begun a fascinating musical journey.

Jean Françaix
Tema con variazioni for Clarinet & Piano: Variation VI. Prestissimo
Every playlist deserves a final flourish, and this exhilarating miniature from Jean Françaix provides exactly that. Lasting barely more than a minute, the movement is a dazzling display of wit, elegance and virtuosity, delivered here by one of the great clarinettists of our time, Michael Collins. Françaix possessed an extraordinary gift for writing music that sounds effortlessly joyful, and nowhere is that more apparent than in this whirlwind variation. The clarinet darts and dances through a stream of rapid-fire passagework with a lightness that makes formidable technical challenges appear almost trivial. Collins is the ideal advocate for this music. His technique is immaculate, but what impresses most is the sense of fun that shines through the performance. After a month of discoveries, reflections and expansive musical landscapes, this brief but electrifying performance provides the perfect send-off: a reminder that sometimes great artistry can be found in the simple joy of hearing a master musician at play.