Classical Explorations — October 2025

Mark Buller
Mass in Exile i. For Want of Refuge. Miserere
Mark Buller, a Houston-based composer who studied piano and composition at the University of Houston and now teaches at Lone Star College, grabbed my attention with a recent Divine Art release from August. It stood out immediately – this sounded like no other Mass setting. Rather than setting the traditional Ordinary of the Mass, Buller chose a text by Leah Lax, an Orthodox Jew. On Buller’s website, he notes that the piece took shape in September 2020, “in the tenuous aftermath of lockdown and following the murders of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor,” and that he was deeply troubled by reactions from people within his religious background. With the shared scriptural roots of Judaism and Christianity as a foundation, Buller and Lax craft a multi-faith sound world that moves boldly between extremes – shifting colours, textures, and emotional terrain.

Anna Clyne
Within Her Arms
Born in London and now based in the USA, Anna Clyne is one of those composers whose music feels deeply personal yet instantly relatable. A former composer-in-residence with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra and the Baltimore Symphony, she’s known for weaving emotion, texture, and atmosphere into soundscapes that blur the line between the intimate and the epic. One of her most moving works, Within Her Arms (2008), is written for 15 solo strings and dedicated to her late mother. It’s music of tender remembrance –quiet, fragile, and luminous. Across its gentle arches, the piece feels suspended between grief and acceptance, carrying the listener through moments of stillness that never feel static. This is chamber music at its most honest – direct, human, and quietly devastating. Conducted here by Marin Alsop, one of my lifelong musical heroes, every phrase carries both intensity and genuine musicality. It was this recording that led me to my next choice, also under Alsop’s direction.

Samuel Barber
Music from a Scene by Shelley, Op.7
Music for a Scene from Shelley, composed in 1933, is an orchestral tone poem drawn from a passage in Percy Bysshe Shelley's play Prometheus Unbound. The work unfolds with sweeping, romantic textures that sparkle with poetic intensity. It was this album that first captivated me with Alsop’s artistry. The lush, searching melodies shift effortlessly between intimate reflection and soaring energy. Written when Barber was just 23, this piece showcases him at his finest – a fully formed musical voice. Although Barber’s Adagio for Strings would later secure his enduring renown, these earlier compositions reveal a unique sensitivity and profound emotional depth.

Michael Haydn
Missa Sancti Hieronymi, MH 254: III. Gloria: No. 2, Quoniam tu solus Sanctus
Michael Haydn might not be a household name like his older brother Joseph – and that’s a shame. Born in 1737 in Rohrau, the same small Austrian village as Joseph, Michael led a quieter but deeply devoted musical life, much of it spent in Salzburg as court musician and composer of sacred works. Despite his talent and craftsmanship, his fame was eclipsed by Joseph’s towering reputation, leaving his music underappreciated for far too long. His Missa Sancti Hieronymi is a perfect example of what we’ve been missing. Written for the feast of St Jerome, it’s radiant and heartfelt – music that feels both ceremonial and warmly human. When performed on period instruments, the colours shimmer beautifully, especially through the oboes in the opening of the Gloria, which lend an almost vocal quality to their lines. The result of the sensitive accompaniment, beautifully clear singing captures the magic of 18th-century Salzburg.

Sergei Prokofiev
Symphony No. 4 (1947 version)
Sergei Prokofiev was one of those composers who seemed to live two lives at once – the modernist firebrand who rocked early 20th‑century Paris, and the Soviet artist forever juggling official approval with his own restless creativity. Born in 1891 in Ukraine, he shot to fame for his razor‑sharp wit and daring harmonies, but his music always carried a disarming sense of lyricism beneath the sparkle. His Symphony No. 4 is a curious gem. He actually wrote it twice – first in 1930 as a reworking of material from his ballet The Prodigal Son, then again more than a decade later when he expanded and deepened it. The result? Two versions of the same idea: one light‑footed and neoclassical, the other broader, darker and more reflective. It’s not as famous as his Fifth Symphony, yet it reveals Prokofiev’s inner tug‑of‑war between charm and intensity. Listen closely and you’ll hear his trademark melodies glint through moments of surprising tenderness – a reminder that even the sharpest musical wit had a deeply human heart.

György Ligeti
Lux Aeterna 
Ligeti was one of the 20th century’s boldest voices – Hungarian-born, trained in Budapest, and later exiled to the West, where his imagination could finally run free. He built sound worlds unlike anyone else’s, thick with shifting textures and ghostly beauty. Although many know him only through Stanley Kubrick’s use of this piece in 2001: A Space Odyssey, Ligeti was far more than a maker of eerie film soundtracks. He was a poet of sound itself, always seeking new ways for notes to breathe and shimmer. Lux Aeterna is a perfect example of that genius. Written in 1966 for sixteen unaccompanied voices, it’s a work of astonishing stillness and disorienting depth. Lux Aeterna (“Eternal Light”) glows softly through layers of wordless harmony, dissolving the boundaries between pitch and colour. It’s easy to see why many listeners once found Ligeti strange or even inaccessible: the piece almost hangs suspended. But that’s exactly why I think this is a shining jewel. I historically arranged Lux Aeterna for some fifty woodwind players – an ambitious idea, perhaps, but one that taught me just how fragile and magnificent Ligeti’s textures can be. Getting the ensemble to blend was extremely hard work; every entrance had to be coaxed, every dynamic shaded. Yet when it finally came together, the result was otherworldly. The sound seemed to hover in the air, luminous and weightless – a reminder that Ligeti’s music, for all its complexity, is really about something beautifully simple: light.

Paul Ben-Haim
Symphony No.2
Paul Ben-Haim, born Paul Frankenburger in Munich in 1897, was a German-Jewish composer whose life changed dramatically after the rise of the Nazis. He fled Germany for Palestine in 1933, embracing his new home’s vibrant musical culture and blending Middle Eastern folk sounds with the Western classical tradition. After WWII, Ben-Haim became a central figure in Israeli music, helping pioneer a uniquely Mediterranean symphonic voice and influencing generations of composers in the region. His Symphony No.2, written in 1945, is full of optimism and pastoral warmth – a stark shift from the tension of his First Symphony, which reflected wartime trauma. The piece opens with luminous, sweeping melodies. Ben-Haim’s orchestration is first-rate (glimmers of Walton do I hear?) and gives this symphony a multi-layered, colourful feel. I really enjoyed the blend of folk influences and classical tradition here.

Erich Korngold
Sinfonietta: iii. Molto andante
Korngold was a genuine prodigy, writing operas and orchestral works while his peers were still mastering multiplication. Born in Vienna in 1897, he was hailed by Strauss and Mahler as a remarkable talent, and his early music radiates youthful brilliance and assurance. Although he later became famous for his sumptuous Hollywood film scores, his gifts were already evident long before he reached America. His Sinfonietta, composed at just 15, is a wonderful display of imagination and orchestral colour. Flowing with lyrical, melismatic lines, it exudes a luxuriant Romantic warmth. The recurring theme has been lingering in my mind this month – a reminder not only of the film composer he would become, but of how strikingly complete his musical voice already was: bold, lyrical, and unmistakably his own.

Jan Sandström
Suenos de Macabros
One of the joys of streaming music is that it never really ends – you can drift from one track to another and suddenly find yourself tumbling down a rabbit hole, unearthing all sorts of treasures. I’m fortunate to live in Epping, close to the “lungs of London”, and I try to get out walking in the forest most days when work allows. On one such walk, this track appeared, and my mind – perhaps elsewhere – assumed it was yet another recording of Albinoni’s Adagio (don’t get me wrong, I do like it – honestly!). For a brief moment, I wondered if I’d accidentally ingested some of the forest mushrooms with this one! Not because it wasn’t wonderful, but because I simply hadn’t expected it. Sueños Macabros translates as “Macabre Dreams”, and this movement caught me completely off guard with its vivid orchestral colours, striking character, and imaginative writing. I was intrigued to discover that Sandström is a highly respected figure in Swedish contemporary music, known for his genre-blurring works and inventive orchestration. This piece has been a real revelation for me this month – I hope it sparks a similar sense of discovery for you.

Granville Bantock
The Cyprian Goddess
Sir Granville Bantock (1868–1946) was one of those gloriously individual figures in early 20th‑century British music – a composer with a romantic spirit and flair for colour. Born in London, he first studied engineering before turning to music, later serving as Principal of the Birmingham and Scottish National Academies of Music. A close friend of Elgar and a champion of other British composers, Bantock filled his works with sweeping emotion and vivid imagination. His inspiration often came from literature, legend and exotic places – from Hebridean songs to Arabian tales. Among these stands The Cyprian Goddess, a radiant tone poem steeped in myth and sensuality. The title evokes Aphrodite, born of the sea, and Bantock paints her world with shimmering strings, languid woodwinds and rich brass sonorities. The work glows with Mediterranean warmth, unfolding like a musical fresco of love and ritual. Romantic and intriguing, it reveals Bantock at his most colourful – a composer inviting listeners to step into a world of myth, marble and sunlight, far beyond the English drizzle.

Jerskin Fendrix
Star Saliva / Industry
Joscelin Dent-Pooley (aka Jerskin Fendrix) is a boundary-pushing English composer and musician who grew up in Shropshire, England, playing violin and piano from a young age. After studying classical music at Cambridge, Fendrix threw himself into London’s underground scene, picking up notoriety for his wild, genre-bending gigs at Brixton Windmill. He’s best known for his acclaimed debut album Winterreise and his Oscar-nominated film score for Poor Things, which put his restless creativity in the spotlight. With the recent release of Star Saliva / Industry, Fendrix takes things even further. The track is a kaleidoscopic burst of his signature unpredictability – glitchy, theatrical, and strangely intimate all at once. It bursts with dense sonics, crooked hooks, and the sly wit that’s quickly become his trademark. Listening to Star Saliva / Industry feels a bit like riding shotgun in Fendrix’s musical brain, careening between grandeur and chaos, but always keeping things distinctly heartfelt. If you like your music with brains, guts and a dash of mischief, this track is well worth your time.

John Mackey
Wine-Dark Sea: ii. Immortal Thread, So Weak
John Mackey has become one of the most exciting voices in contemporary wind music. Born in 1973 in New Philadelphia, Ohio, he studied at Juilliard and has built a reputation for his bold, cinematic writing – often blending rock energy with symphonic colour. His works have become staples for wind ensembles worldwide, thanks to their rhythmic drive, lush textures and emotional punch. Wine-Dark Sea, completed in 2014 for the University of Texas Wind Ensemble, shows Mackey at his most ambitious. It’s a symphony in three movements inspired by Homer’s Odyssey, taking listeners on a fierce, turbulent journey through myth and memory. You can hear Odysseus setting sail, battling monsters and struggling to return home – all filtered through Mackey’s vivid harmonic imagination. The score brims with power one moment and shattering tenderness the next. For anyone who thinks of wind band music as reserved or predictable, Wine-Dark Sea is a thrilling surprise – richly emotional, unapologetically modern, and proof that this ensemble can tell stories as grand as any orchestra.