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British pianist Duncan Honeybourne continues in his splendid quest to bring lesser-known and rarely-performed British piano music to the fore with his latest release – a collection of pieces by Reginald Redman (1892-1972).

Reginald Ernest Redman (known as “Rex” to his family and friends) was born in London on 17th September 1892, but his roots were in the South and West of England (his father came from Wiltshire and his mother from Devon). He became a church organist at the age of 16 while working as a bank clerk before going on to study music at the Guildhall School of Music. In 1926, Redman took a major career step which was to colour the rest of his life: he joined the new British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), initially as an orchestral pianist and then as conductor of what became the National Orchestra of Wales. He then became the BBC Director of Music, Western Region, remaining in that role until 1952, where he had a significant influence on shaping the musical tastes of listeners. Alongside this, he composed for radio and television.

His music is strongly connected to the West Country, with many pieces having local inspiration (for example, A Cornish Legend and The Mist on the Moors), but he was also an expert on Chinese music (he set some 50 Chinese poems to music), and this is evident in his use of pentatonic harmony and a fondness for fourths and fifths, for example, in The Mystic Garden and the three Preludes, which have a distinctly Eastern exoticism in both harmonies and textures.

Most of Redman’s piano music seems to have been composed in the 1920s, before his role at the BBC became too demanding. Elegantly crafted music, it shows many influences, from Impressionism (The Mist on the Moors, La Nuit, Deep in the Woods) to British folk and pastoral idioms (Graceful Dance, All Through the Night), and is rich in colours, warm melodies, and sparkling pianistic textures (Humoreske). Some pieces have whimsical titles (Lullaby for a Kitten, Children at Play, In Changing Moods) and moods to match: touching and lyrical.

A Cornish Legend and On the Cornish Coast share the impressionism of Mist on the Moors but are more mysterious and expansive in their moods and expression. On the Cornish Coast vividly brings to life the rugged coastline and unpredictability of the Atlantic Ocean with swirling semiquavers and dramatic octaves.  

This is a really satisfying, enjoyable, and engaging recording, beautifully presented by Duncan Honeybourne, who displays a deep affinity with the music (Duncan hails from the West of England). The piano sound is warm and lyrical, bright but always sensitive in the upper registers. As a world premiere recording, The Mist on the Moors is a significant contribution to the repertoire and brings Redman’s refined compositional language and his appreciation of the expressive qualities of the piano to greater attention, showcasing the range of his musical imagination in a delightful range of pieces.

The Mist on the Moors is released on the Heritage Records label on CD and streaming.

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Guest post by Alexandra Westcott

This article about learning the piano, the skills and the memories was lovely, and jogged my own memories of myself both as student and teacher.

I was about 6 when I used my sister’s books to learn the piano – they had photos for hand positions and finger numbers and that seemed all I needed (I’ve no idea to this day how I learned the rhythm and counting; I don’t remember reading about it but I must have!). I raced through the books and started fiddling with any music floating around, which was a fair amount as my Mum was a singer and also played the piano. I remember having the C major Mozart sonata at home and learning two pages during each holiday when home from boarding school at around 8 or 9. At this point Mum asked me if I wanted lessons, and because all my friends hated it (they hated the
practice); I said no because I loved playing, but she obviously ignored me and I ended up with a teacher I adored with whom I became very close.

I played the piano in all my spare time to the extent my reports used to say ‘she spends a lot of time at the piano’ and during prep, having done my homework as fast as possible, would skip off to the music rooms. I was fussy even then about the piano I played, and only the teachers’ or the grand in the assembly hall would do! None of the awful practice pianos for me!

During my time at school with this wonderful teacher, me and a group of friends would be taken away for a weekend each term to him and his wife at his amazing ancient cottage. He was the church organist and ran the church choir so we ate well on local Devon produce that he was given by local friends and members of the church. At times we also had breakfast in bed (often sugar on toast!), It was all very idyllic and I stayed in touch with him and his wife until they died.

For the 6th form I left there and went to a college local to my home, so I changed teacher and went to a local music school during my A levels. A completely different teacher and one the parents were scared of but the pupils loved. We did Sunday concerts at her house, always with cake, and a large concert once a year at the 6th form college at which she got her advanced students to do a movement of a concerto with her school orchestra. I did the first movement of the Schumann. I never wanted to be a concert pianist but this was good experience and I later had the chance to play on a few occasions with another orchestra, and for one of the concerts performed the whole of the Schumann. It brought back many memories.

I had another teacher for my degree, and then had a break in formal lessons before returning to a commitment to my own playing in my 20s. I had a local teacher for a year but then met Nelly Ben Or and knew I had to learn with her.

Nelly Ben Or

I studied with Nelly for many many years undoing my bad habits in order to acquire new and better ones and becoming a much better pianist, and a better teacher for that. I would often have lunch along with my lessons, and, again, house concerts and other performances enhanced the lessons. And, yes, you guessed it, always with accompanying food and drink.

As a teacher myself I became the sort of teacher I had grown up with; I had close bonds with my students, always had house concerts and local concerts both with tea parties afterwards, usually some chocolate for after lessons, and often would become close friends and either take them out for tea when young, or stay in touch later on.

Piano teachers, or any instrument teacher, hold a particular place in the life of a child. Such a close bond is formed and often many confidentialities shared. There needs to be trust for something that is hard to learn and something that needs self expression in execution. It is maybe not surprising that the bond becomes a firm friendship (and, often, one that needs physical as well as sustenance)!

I often wonder about my students’ memories of their time with me and whether they have similar memories as I do about my own mentors. I hope they hold the same  happy and cherished memories in their hearts for all the hours we spent and fun we had together as I do for my own teachers.

Alexandra Westcott is a piano teacher based in north London who specialises in understanding the piano in the light of the Alexander Technique, as studied with Nelly Ben Or, and encourages all areas of learning in a creative way. Find out more here

If you would like to share your piano memories, whether you are a teacher or pianist, or bothm, please get in touch

This site is free to access and advert-free. If you find joy and value in the content of this site, please consider making a donation to support its continuance, and to ensure it remains free to read.

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Schubert: Impromptus Opp.90 and 142 – Eric Lu, piano (Warner Classics)

The two sets of Impromptus are my favourite piano pieces by Franz Schubert, music which I’ve explored as both player and listener since my teens. As a consequence, I’m very fussy about performances and interpretations of this music

In his second recording of Schubert’s piano music, Eric Lu, winner of both the Leeds and Chopin competitions, presents both sets of Impromptus. In interviews, Lu has expressed his affinity with and affection for Schubert’s music, stating that, “It is difficult to describe how meaningful his music is to me….he is the composer who moves me most intensely.“

A shame then, that Lu doesn’t seem to translate these statements when he actually plays the music. Ponderous tempos, lingering rubato and over-emphasised agogic accents, all presumblay intended to suggest “emotional depth” abound, particularly in the D898/1, D935/1 and D935/2. Here, I feel Lu mistakes slowness for profound emotion. This is most evident in the very first impromptu. That bare G that opens the piece is sustained far too long, to the point where one wonders if the pianist has perhaps forgotten what comes next. The opening theme is sluggish (the overall tempo is too slow here) and detracts from the drama and contrasting moods (portrayed in Schubert’s characteristic volte-faces between minor and major keys). I felt this performance was contrived, somewhat egocentric – and find myself repeating some of what I said about Lu’s previous Schubert release. Oh dear! (https://crosseyedpianist.com/2022/12/30/leeds-winners-release-albums/)

He’s better in the more lively impromptus. The D899/2 ripples along in its outer sections, with a clear dance pulse in the bass which adds to the sense of forward propulsion. The final impromptu, a fiery Hungarian dance, has rhythmic bite which contrasts with sparkling scalic passages.

Lu is often described as “a poet of the piano” (a moniker attributed to many a young competition winner these days!) and there’s no doubting his ability to make a beautiful sound, perhaps most evident on this recording in the G-flat major impromptu where Lu achieves a singing melodic line, sensitively phrased, over a subtly shifting bass of almost continuous movement.

The thing about this music is that Schubert gives plenty of directions and a rather more “literal” interpretation, free of wandering rubato and unnecessary accents, actually feels more in keeping with the composer’s emotional landscape.
And for that I would recommend recordings by more mature, experienced Schubert players such as Maria Joao Pires, Mitsuko Uchida or Murray Perahia.

But Lu is not yet 30 and there’s plenty of time for him to absorb all the subtleties and details of Schubert’s writing. So maybe I’ll find more to love in his next release, when it comes….

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Guest post by Orlando Murrin

Have you ever wondered why we ‘play’ musical instruments? If you’re like me, it doesn’t feel at all like playing; ‘practising’, ‘learning’ or ‘studying’ are the usual descriptions.

This got me thinking – are we missing out? What if – at least some of the time – we approached the piano in a more playful spirit? Instead of self-improvement, we sat down at the keyboard and had fun for its own sake. Experimented… Fooled about… Played, in the true sense.

I’m in the lucky position of being an amateur, with occasional, optional opportunities to perform. For a short while as a teenager I considered pursuing a career in music but my then teacher, the Czech pianist Liza Fuchova, advised strongly against it. ‘You’ll get far more pleasure from it as a hobby,’ she said, generously ignoring the side-issue that I wasn’t nearly talented enough.

At this time – the 1970s – piano lessons were in vogue, and many homes had instruments. At parties, there would be an unseemly scrambling for who could bag the keyboard first, and woe betide you if you didn’t have a flashy piece or two up your sleeve with which to dazzle the others. I find it sad so few homes seem to have pianos nowadays, or not real ones.

Last year I met up with a friend over from New York. He always asks how my piano is going, which is sweet of him considering he’s Steve Ross, one the greatest living cabaret pianists.

‘I’m learning some Scarlatti,’ I told him, ‘but I’m not sure why. At the touch of a button, I can hear it performed by the greatest pianists in the world, infinitely better than I ever will. Seriously – why play at all?’

He looked at me, puzzled. ‘Because it’s a beautiful thing to do.’

I’ve thought about this ever since, and of course he’s right. Those of us who play – with any degree of competence – are blessed. We’re also the envy of everyone else.

I feel particularly lucky that for various reasons I’ve kept my playing up all these years. I’m now in my sixties. How many times have I heard people say: ‘I stopped at Grade 5. I so wish I hadn’t.’?

Another comment I get a lot is, ‘It must be fantastic just to sit down and play’. I usually counter this with a boring monologue about how you don’t – you’re too busy learning new pieces and toiling away at technical problems – but what if they have a point? What if playing is what it’s really all about?

With this in mind, I’ve recently been setting aside my ‘serious’ music projects (for which read, far too difficult for me ever to play in public but that won’t stop me trying) and going through my huge sheet music selection, picking things out to play through for pleasure. Having caught Barenboim conducting ‘Bolero’ on YouTube, I fumbled my way through it (love the modulation on the last page), and after watching Death in Venice, Mahler’s Adagietto. When Radio 3 played ‘Lotus Blossom’ by Billy Strayhorn, I was so intrigued by the weird, drifting harmonies that I bought a sheet music download – two quid well spent.

While we’re talking words, here are two worth scrutinising in this context. We use ‘amateur’ to mean sub-professional, forgetting that it really means doing the thing for love. Not out of duty, or to improve ourselves, or to keep our minds nimble. But because we love it.

And finally, the French verb for attending a recital or concert is assister. Next time I play in front of an audience, I will try and think of it as assisting me – helping me to bring the music alive – rather than listening out for mistakes.

Seen that way, playing stops being a test and becomes a form of participation: with the instrument, the music, and sometimes the people in the room. Which feels indeed a beautiful thing to do.

If you want to be reminded of what ‘playing’ should be, watch young children at the piano. Their small hands tumble, their concentration is fierce, and the delight is unmistakable – theirs and the audience’s alike. They’re not performing, or proving anything. They really are playing.

(Image: BBC)

Orlando Murrin is a food writer, now crime writer, and forever amateur pianist.

orlandomurrin.com