Sleevenotes from PFCD249 Concerto for Trumpet and Strings
Trumpet Concerto – 3 Shades of Blue: Dark Blue, Light Blue, Sky Blue
The genesis of the concerto was the passing of an old character, John, who was a great jazz enthusiast, thus the jazz infused style. There is no particular programme, although the last section could represent being at peace, or fond recollection with a hint of poignancy. I have freely adapted one of John’s favourite Louis Armstrong blues which occurs throughout the piece; although I don’t know how Tchaikovsky crept his way in!
3 Songs of Mary – poems by John Clare Autumn (The Fall of the Year): Love Song (My Mary): Nocturne (To Mary)
John Clare was on of England’s greatest nature poets. He was also an outcast from his native fenland village – as a famous poet he was considered eccentric by the narrow minded community. He was refused the marriage to his childhood sweetheart Mary Joyce by Mary’s parents, and this, plus the enclosures act which prevented him wandering at will across his beloved countryside contributed to his mental decline. Throughout this decline he constantly referred to Mary and imagined a reunion with her. At first he voluntarily resided in an asylum, being allowed some freedom but eventually he was confined permanently. The first and third poems were written in the asylums – the latter when his
mental faculties were hardly functioning any more.
Clare was also a great satirist. William Cowper’s popular poem ‘Mary’ was disliked by Clare for its sentimentality, so he wrote a take on the poem, picturing Mary in the most unflattering light possible.
Portraits for cello, strings and 3 horns
Portraits has no particular programme, beyond the idea of facing unexpected crisis and its reconciliation. The extensive quotes from Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony hark back to a choral and orchestral piece I wrote for the 80th birthday of my inspirational music teacher at school, John Railton. He had his left arm amputated through cancer, but heroically proceeded to live a long, busy teaching and conducting career totally unhindered by his disability. The Eroica symphony I particularly associate with him – an A level set work and my first appearance as an orchestral player in the school orchestra – viola and timpani simultaneously. It was originally conceived for an Australian cellist friend who had Hungarian roots – thus the freely adapted quotations of 2 Hungarian folk tunes. The addition of 3 horns is a nod to the Eroica Symphony.
Ian Pillow has spent most of his life as a viola player in major symphony orchestras; in London, Liverpool and especially Bournemouth where he also presented pre concert lectures and conducted community projects. He also wrote the humorous Pillow Talk column for Classic FM magazine, and features for national newspapers. His compositions include vocal, choral, instrumental and orchestral works and have been performed in many countries including the USA, Canada, France, Spain, Hungary and Slough.
Joseph Skypala, trumpeter, graduate with a Master of Arts degree from the Royal Academy of Music, is beginning a busy freelance career in London and across the UK. A keen orchestral trumpet player, recently was a member of the 2022-23 South-bank Sinfonia Fellowship and has freelanced with many of the UK’s top orchestras including the London Philharmonic Orchestra, Royal Philharmonic Orchestras, BBC Concert Orchestra amongst others. Solo and chamber work is a major part of Joseph’s day to day schedule, having given world premiers of 2 works and being a founding member of Natrio, a natural trumpet group regularly performing recitals in London.
Rosalie Curlett began her studies at the Royal Northern College of Music in Manchester, graduating with a first-class honours degree. After several years of freelancing Rosalie moved to Belfast in February 2018, having been awarded a full time position with the Ulster Orchestra. Rosalie has performed regularly with the BBC Philharmonic Orchestra, Philharmonia Orchestra, Manchester Camerata and the Halle Orchestra. She has been fortunate enough to perform all over the world in countries such as Germany, Poland, Spain and China to name a few, and has recorded under Chandos and Deutsche Grammophon record labels. Solo performances include Saint-Saëns Cello Concerto No.1, Schumann Cello Concerto, Brahms Double Concerto plus starring as the role of a young gifted cellist in the ITV drama ‘Kingdom’ alongside Stephen Fry.
Anna Gregg Recent winner of the ‘Deborah Voigt Opera Prize ‘at the BBC Radio 3 Glenarm Festival of Voice, soprano Anna Gregg has the title of ‘Northern Ireland Opera Voice of the Year’ of 2023. Anna is already forging a distinguished career for herself,both in opera and oratorio.A recent role was that of Lucia in Britten ‘s The Rape of Lucretia’with the British Youth Opera. She was associate artist with NI Opera, and opened their summer recital series. She has recently been awarded the Dufferin audience prize at the Camerata Ireland Academy, an organisation founded by the pianist Barry Douglas, to promote Northern Ireland ‘s most talented young musicians.’
Credits
Recorded at Townsend Street Church, Belfast (1-3,7) 26.8.24 St Margaret’s Church, Putney (4-6) 22.8.24
Mastered by Ian Shepherd @Mastering Media Ltd.
Richard Campbell, recording engineer (Belfast); Christopher Gough, producer (Belfast).
Jan Capìński, recording engineer and producer (Putney).
Artwork by James Clancy-Galasiu.
Icon Strings:
Jenny Sacha, Elise Harper violins; Nathalie Green-Buckley Pacey, viola; Kirsten Jenson cello.
Autumn
The Fall Of The Year
The Autumn’s come again,
And the clouds descend in rain,
And the leaves are fast falling in the wood;
The Summer’s voice is still,
Save the clacking of the mill
And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood.
There’s nothing in the mead
But the river’s muddy speed,
And the willow leaves all littered by its side.
Sweet voices are all still
In the vale and on the hill,
And the Summer’s blooms are withered in their pride.
Fled is the cuckoo’s note
To countries far remote,
And the nightingale is vanished from the woods;
If you search the lordship round
There is not a blossom found,
And where the hay-cock scented is the flood.
My true love’s fled away
Since we walked ‘mid cocks of hay,
On the Sabbath in the Summer of the year;
And she’s nowhere to be seen
On the meadow or the green,
But she’s coming when the happy Spring is near.
When the birds begin to sing,
And the flowers begin to spring,
And the cowslips in the meadows reappear,
When the woodland oaks are seen
In their monarchy of green,
Then Mary and love’s pleasures will be here.
Love song
My Mary
Who lives where beggars rarely speed,
And leads a humdrum life indeed
As none beside herself would lead?
My Mary.
Who lives where noises never cease,
And, what wi’ hogs and ducks and geese,
Can never have a minute’s peace?
My Mary.
Who, nearly battled to her chin,
Bangs down the yard through thick and thin,
Nor picks a road, nor cares a pin?
My Mary.
Who (save in Sunday bin-and-tuck)
Goes daily, waddling like a duck,
O’er head and ears in grease and muck?
My Mary.
Unused to pattens or to clogs,
Who takes the swill to serve the hogs,
And steals the milk for cats and dogs?
My Mary.
Who (frost and snow as hard as nails)
Stands out o’ doors and never fails
To wash up things and scour the pails?
My Mary.
Who bustles night and day, in short,
At all catch jobs of every sort
And gains her Mistress’ favour for’t?
My Mary.
And who is oft repaid wi’ praise
In doing what her Mistress says
And yielding to her whimmy ways?
My Mary.
For there’s none apter, I believe,
At ‘creeping up her Mistress’ sleeve’
Than this low kindred stump of Eve,
My Mary!
Who when the baby’s all beshit
To please its mamma kisses it,
And vows no rose on earth’s so sweet!
My Mary.
But when her Mistress isn’t nigh
Who swears and wishes it would die,
And pinches it to make it cry?
My Mary.
Oh rank deceit! What soul could think—
But gently there, revealing ink!—
At faults of thine this friend must wink,
My Mary!
Who (not without a spark o’ pride,
Though strong as grunters’ bristly hide)
Does keep her hair in papers tied?
My Mary.
And, mimicking the gentry’s way,
Who strives to speak as fine as they
And minds but every word they say?
My Mary.
And who (though’s well bid blind to see
As her to tell the A from B)
Thinks herself none o’ low degree?
My Mary.
Who prates, and runs o’er silly stuff,
And ‘mong the boys makes sport enough—
So ugly, silly, droll and rough?
My Mary.
Ugly! Muse, for shame ‘o thee,
What faults art thou a’going to see
In one that’s lotted out to be?
My Mary?
But heedless sayings meaneth nought
Done innocent without a thought—
We humbly ask thy pardon for’t,
My Mary.
Who, low in stature, thick and fat,
Turns brown from going without a hat
(Though not a pin the worse for that)?
My Mary.
Who’s laughed at, too, by every whelp
For failings which they cannot help—
But silly fools will laugh and chelp,
My Mary!
For though in stature mighty small
And near as thick as thou art tall,
That hand made thee that made us all,
My Mary.
And though thy nose hooks down too much,
And prophesies thy chin to touch,
I’m not so nice to look at such,
My Mary.
No, no! About thy nose and chin,
Its hooking out or bending in,
I never heed nor care a pin,
My Mary!
And though thy skin is brown and rough,
And formed by Nature hard and tough,
All suiteth me—so that’s enough.
Nocturne
To Mary
I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,
And yet thou art not there;
I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,
And press the common air.
Thy eyes are gazing upon mine,
When thou art out of sight;
My lips are always touching thine,
At morning, noon, and night.
I think and speak of other things
To keep my mind at rest:
But still to thee my memory clings
Like love in woman’s breast.
I hide it from the world’s wide eye,
And think and speak contrary;
But soft the wind comes from the sky,
And whispers tales of Mary.
The night wind whispers in my ear,
The moons shines in my face;
A burden still of chilling fear
I find in every place.
The breeze is whispering in the bush,
And the dews fall from the tree,
All sighing on, and will not hush,
Some pleasant tales of thee.