Ryan Teague, the Bristolian soundsmith, has released a pair of instrumental compositions that suggest the influence of classical processes, combining simplicity and emotion.
What’s the music like?
From its title, Chorale in A minor could have been written at any point in the last 300 years or so. Its musical language suggests a look back to the distant past, though the electronic choir sound has a touching and emotive simplicity. Gradually the piece builds in weight and intensity, impressive in widescreen, before paring back to a weightless finish.
The Canon in E minor is relatively austere as it begins, but its movement becomes more graceful and stately as the electronic string sounds reach for the heights. The piece is like an arch, climbing to its peak before descending in its second half, returning from whence it came.
Does it all work?
Yes – both pieces have poise and presence.
Is it recommended?
It is…and it will be interesting to see where Teague heads next musically. Here he has managed to bring emotion from musical simplicity; no mean achievement.
Published post no.2,408 – Saturday 11 January 2025
by Ben Hogwood Image (c) Toronto Star via Getty Images
Over Christmas we heard the sad news that pioneering harpsichordist Colin Tilney had died, at the age of 91. A pupil of the legendary Gustav Leonhardt, Tilney specialized mostly on the harpsichord but could also be heard playing the fortepiano
The playlist below offers a selection of Tilney’s recordings, mostly of early music – but including a snippet of Stravinsky‘s The Rake’s Progress, conducted by the composer himself in 1964, with Tilney on harpsichord duties:
A choral piece by Johann Sebastian Bach, called Jesu Bleibet Meine Freude (Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring). It is the tenth movement of his cantata Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben (Heart and mouth and deed and life), written early in Bach’s time in Leipzig, thought to have been in 1723. The melody, however, is understood to have been written by Johann Schop, with Bach providing the harmonisation.
The song itself was written by Beach Boys co-founder Al Jardine, paying tribute to his wife Lynda – with a co-credit also given to keyboard player Ron Altbach. Jardine sings the main vocals, with a large ensemble of session musicians given credit at the song’s Wikipedia page.
How does it work?
The song begins with a note-for-note reproduction of the Bach / Schop melody, with the harpsichord adding a metallic brightness to the thick string sound. Then Jardine starts to play around with the speed of Bach’s work, making the transition to the full-blown Beach Boys sound reasonably seamless, with the addition of some woozy syncopations.
The song has the Beach Boys’ characteristically sunny sound, but there is a certain flatness to its delivery, perhaps belying the band’s fraught relationship at the time and even foretelling the fate of Al and Lynda’s marriage.
That said, it is a bright and relatively positive song, its dappled textures and syncopations presenting Bach’s work in a new and imaginative light.
What else is new?
Lady Lynda was the third single from the Beach Boys’ relatively unsuccessful album L.A. (Light Album), released in the spring of 1979. In a streamlined radio edit, with the introduction removed, it reached no.6 in the UK singles chart.
It was however recast when Jardine and his wife divorced, pointing towards a different Lady (the Statue of Liberty) and becoming Lady Liberty instead.
If he were still alive, Elvis Presley would have reached the grand age of 90 today.
We can’t possibly do justice to ‘The King’ in one post, but we can enjoy one of his very best songs, viewed through the prism of the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra in 2015. I’m not normally a fan of re-orchestrations, but this one is a beauty – and BBC Radio 2 must agree, for as I type this post they are playing the very same recording! Of course it’s Elvis who wins the day through sheer charisma, in a song that won’t fail to make you smile. That voice! Enjoy…
Published post no.2,405 – Wednesday 8 January 2025
The New Year is barely a week old, yet TV viewers in the UK have already said goodbye to a much-loved detective.
After 14 seasons DCI Vera Stanhope, played by the inimitable Brenda Blethyn (above), has hung up her hat – and with it brought the hugely successful ITV series of dramatisations of books by Jane Cleeves to an end.
There are several key elements to Vera’s success – led by Blethyn herself, a powerhouse character with a keen empathy for the victims of the crimes she is investigating, and an uncanny and occasionally sympathetic understanding of the perpetrators. She rules her team with a rod of iron, though this softer side does occasionally reveal itself.
The support cast are strong, notably David Leon (DI Joe Ashworth, above), Jon Morrison (DC Kenny Lockhart) and Cush Jumbo (DC Bethany Whelan), who met a tragic end in the sixth series.
Yet there are two other stars of the show. The Northumbrian scenery is one, beautifully brought to life by directors Adrian Shergold, Louise Hooper and Paul Whittington. The haunting music of Ben Bartlett is the other, so subtle that it didn’t even warrant a mention in ITV’s documentary about the series.
When you first watch Vera the music seems incidental – but that’s the point. Delve deeper and you will find it is written with forensic attention to detail, commentating wordlessly on each scene while keeping the tension bubbling.
Bartlett uses a mixture of acoustic and electronic sounds, with some dubby effevts giving perspective, often panning out to appreciate the wide open spaces of Northumberland. There is the odd sudden ‘whoosh’ of sound when a plot twist is revealed, and on occasion sonic atmospherics are used to portray the rarefied light often present at the North Sea coast.
The theme itself is also subtle, but memorable, a four-note murmur from strings that grows in presence and stature as the credits roll. Everything – in every episode I’ve watched to date – is rooted in the key of D minor. Bartlett uses this dark key as the basis for all his ideas, which relate back to the main theme without ever duplicating it – the composer adding or taking away layers, depending on the subject in hand.
Only once have I known Vera venture beyond the original score, in a memorable scene from the penultimate episode where its climax was accompanied by Northumbrian folk musicians TheUnthanks, and their haunting song Magpie:
Yet the credit goes to Bartlett, whose brooding score deserves great credit for its economical use of a small amount of music, somehow never outstaying its welcome and always enhancing the story. Vera just wouldn’t be the same without it!
Arcana.fm 