Arthur Bliss: Decca British Music Collection [2 CDs]
Robert Cohen (cello); Alfredo Campoli (violin); Royal Philharmonic Company/Barry Wordsworth; National Philharmonic Orchestra/Bernard Herrmann; Philip Jones Brass Ensemble
Decca 470 186-2; 2CDs; total playing time 124:21; recorded 1955–1993
To revisit Arthur Bliss is to engage with a figure whose music—so quintessentially English yet stubbornly eclectic—has often been the victim of its own modest ambitions. This Decca two-disc set, drawn from sessions spanning nearly four decades, offers a somewhat uneven but invariably intriguing survey of Bliss’s output, confirming the composer’s stature as a craftsman of remarkable texture and orchestral colour, if not a towering original voice. The anthology begins with Introduction and Allegro, presented twice here: first under the composer’s own baton — from 1955 with Alfredo Campoli’s lithe violin, and again in a 1993 rendition led by Barry Wordsworth.
The warm acoustics of the concert hall seem to breathe through the disc.
It’s a work of taut architecture, a study in contrasts—lyricism versus rhythmic propulsion—where Bliss’s command of sonority is unmistakable. The older recording, charming in its period simplicity, occasionally blunts the edges of the string writing, yet Campoli’s warm tone and — well — idiomatic phrasing compensate. Wordsworth’s is more polished, the orchestral textures more transparent, allowing subtle details—woodwind filigree, harp glissandi—to surface with refined clarity.
One hears Bliss’s intricate layering, the almost neoclassical precision underpinning the sweeping arch of the "Allegro". Robert Cohen’s 1993 Cello Concerto is the set’s genuine revelation—a work overshadowed historically by Elgar’s colossal shadow but deserving a far wider hearing. Cohen’s tone here is burnished, incisive yet tender where the music calls for it, and — well — Wordsworth’s Royal Philharmonic plays with both verve and poise.
The concerto’s energetic first movement pulses with restless energy; one senses Bliss grappling with a modern idiom yet never abandoning his lyrical gift. The "Adagio" is a study in melancholy restraint, the cello’s line carving a path of resonant introspection. A shame — really, that this piece remains a relative rarity in the concerto repertoire.
The Meditations on a Theme by John Blow (mid-1950s) is arguably the set’s jewel. Here Bliss’s skill as a variation composer — drawing on a venerable 17th-century psalm tune — proves both reverence and inventiveness. The meditative quality is profound, the theme only unveiled in full glory at the work’s solemn close, a musical benediction that’s genuinely affecting.
Wordsworth’s reading is attentive, though I longed for the more impassioned approach once offered by Vernon Handley on EMI, now sadly out of print. Still, this is among the finest achievements in British 20th-century music—a work combining austerity and warmth with consummate craft. Turning to the brass repertoire, the Philip Jones Brass Ensemble (in its prime) delivers Antiphonal Fanfare, Flourish, and Fanfare for the Lord Mayor of London with the crisp articulation and radiant ensemble balance that made them the benchmark.
These are no monumental masterpieces, that much is certain, but the performances sparkle, detail immaculately captured by Decca’s engineers. They bring out the idiomatic elegance and — well — urbane wit that permeate these occasional pieces. Things to Come, taken from the National Philharmonic under Bernard Herrmann — offers a more — cinematic glimpse of Bliss’s palette, albeit with perhaps too much Hollywood gloss for some tastes.
Still — it’s an entertaining slice of mid-century British symphonic writing. The package, regrettably, is marred by some editorial sloppiness. The booklet notes are skimpy, lacking the depth and context that Bliss’s music so desperately needs to be fully appreciated today.
The inclusion of the Introduction and Allegro twice feels like padding rather than a thoughtful curatorial choice. One wonders, given Decca’s archives, whether other overlooked Bliss works might not have better rounded out this collection. In sum, this Decca set—while an uneven companion—is a valuable document.
It captures Bliss’s evolving voice, from the mid-century neoclassical leanings to his more reflective late style. It’s not quite the definitive Bliss collection, but it is certainly a necessary one. For those willing to navigate its quirks and gaps, there is rich music to discover here.
Bliss remains a British composer whose music rewards patience and close listening—qualities increasingly rare these days. Two cheers, then, for Decca’s British Music Collection. Bliss’s music still waits in the wings for full recognition.
This set makes a solid case for reconsideration.
