What are you listening 2 now?

[Florestan]

In Osho's words: "When the mind is gone and you are left alone without it, a fragrance is released. You have come home. You are fulfilled. The thousand-petaled lotus of your being has opened."

In English that is called "losing one's mind". 

(Sorry, couldn't resist.)

[pjme]

much of it still unrecorded

A couple of years ago I bought that Leduc disc in Brussels ( Pêle-Mêle shop, Boulevard Lemonnier) from a huge pile of all kinds of Cyprès cds for 1 €....
Belgian composers don't sell....

He wrote the "imposé" for the 1972 Queen Elisabeth competition 

[AnotherSpin]

A lot of people have quite daft momentos of their personal history inked on their bodies.

But if your girlfriend breaks up with you, you could always look for a new one with the same name. 

What about the music? 

It's rather nice when memories of personal history come free of emotional colouring. To heighten the feeling is only to lend power to the illusion...

I quite like the album, listened to it twice in a row today. Somehow, music like this really works during stressful days.

[vandermolen]

Bliss: A Colour Symphony 1961 Proms performance (Bliss's 70th Birthday Concert)
The CD release commemorates the 50th Anniversary of Bliss's death in 1975. I remember it well as I was a student at Lancaster University and Bliss had an affiliation with the university. I was already a fan and wrote an obituary for the university magazine (accompanies, I think, by my drawing of the composer!)
The performance is good, if not so well recorded as the fine recording by Sir Charles Groves, which remains my favourite. However, the Proms recording reveals some new insights. I look forward to exploring the rest of the double album, especially Bliss conducting 'Morning Heroes' and both of the piano concertos.

[AnotherSpin]

[vandermolen]

'Monk by the Sea' by Caspar David Friedrich is possibly my favourite painting - the theme of Existential despair is right up my street 

[Harry]

The Polish Violin.
Works by:
Szymanowski: Mythes op.30; Nocturne & Tarantella op.28; Chant de Roxane; Romance op.23
Moszkowski: Guitarre op.45 No.2.
Karłowicz: Impromptu
Wieniawski: Légende op.17; Polonaise de Concert op.4
(See back cover for full details)

Jennifer Pike – Violin.
Petr Limonov – Piano.
Recorded 2018 at Potton Hall, Dunwich, Suffolk ·
Streaming: FLAC 44.1kHz/16-bit ·
Label: Chandos · PDF file attached

I must admit — Szymanowski has long stood at the edge of my musical affections, a composer whose work I found either too meandering or too elusive, drifting in an ornamental fog. And yet, when the invitation comes from Jennifer Pike, one accepts. Her playing has a persuasive intelligence, and here it manages to draw me — if not entirely over — then at least alongside Szymanowski's path. As W.S. Merwin once wrote: "I go on waiting / for what I do not know..."

This recital, elegantly constructed and deeply felt, serves not only as an anthology of Polish virtuosity, but as a kind of personal negotiation with a composer whose aesthetic refuses easy alignment. Mythes and the Nocturne & Tarantella — the core Szymanowski works here — shimmer with iridescent textures and fractured lyricism. Pike doesn't attempt to pin the music down. Instead, she lets its dream-threaded lines unravel organically, spinning a tapestry of colour and tension, beauty and bewilderment. Her tone remains fluid and pure, the articulation always breathing, even when the music itself avoids straight paths.

Petr Limonov, her pianist and equal partner in every sense, must be applauded. His playing is supple, alert, and exquisitely timed — more than accompaniment, it is counterpoint, conversation, and often, quiet propulsion. Few can stand this close to Pike and keep pace — Limonov not only does, but shapes the air with her. Their unity is so refined that even in Szymanowski's more enigmatic turns, the performance feels coherent and emotionally centred.

The remaining works — by Moszkowski, Karłowicz, and Wieniawski — provide anchoring contrast. They speak in more immediate, lyrical terms: Karłowicz's Impromptu is gentle and atmospheric; Moszkowski's Guitarre offers lightness and charm; Wieniawski's Légende and Polonaise bring a familiar flourish. These works land easily on the ear, and Pike plays them not as mere filler, but as living, crafted repertoire — her technique never getting in the way of musical phrasing, and always laced with warmth.

The recording itself is of high quality — typical of Potton Hall's well-managed acoustics — though one might gently lament Chandos' decision to stick with 44.1kHz/16-bit for streaming, especially in a performance of such colour and inner detail. One longs for just a bit more headroom in the spatial halo, a touch more air between the voices. Still, what's captured here is entirely satisfying and tonally balanced.

In the end, this is a recording not just of national repertoire, but of interpretive refinement. Pike and Limonov do not merely play the works; they open them, navigate them, and in the case of Szymanowski, make them momentarily comprehensible to those of us who walk hesitantly behind.

Will I venture further into his symphonies? Perhaps. Perhaps not. But this recording has ensured I'll no longer turn away without listening first.

Karol Szymanowski (1882–1937) stands as a pivotal figure in early 20th-century Polish music, bridging late Romanticism and the emerging currents of European modernism. Influenced early on by Chopin and Scriabin, he later absorbed the colours of Debussy, the mysticism of the East, and the folk rhythms of the Tatra highlands. His music often resists linear development in favour of layered textures, suspended harmonies, and sensual, elusive atmospheres.

Though he never achieved the broad international renown of contemporaries like Bartók or Stravinsky, Szymanowski played a foundational role in shaping a Polish musical identity that would later influence figures such as Lutosławski and Penderecki. His work remains a challenge — and a reward — for those willing to follow his winding path.

[AnotherSpin]

Yes, indeed, Vartolo's playing here is borderline catatonic, as is immediately apparent, especially in the harpsichord parts. And yet, there's something about it... or am I simply drawn to slowed-down interpretations that seem to hang in the air, somehow?

[brewski]

Magnus Lindberg: GRAFFITI (2009). After chatting with a singer pal who performed this years ago, my first time hearing this piece, based on inscriptions on the walls of Pompeii. This version with the Finnish Radio Symphony Orchestra, the Helsinki Chamber Choir, and conductor Sakari Oramo seems about as good as anyone could want, with typically vivid sound on Ondine.

[Karl Henning]

In English that is called "losing one's mind". 

(Sorry, couldn't resist.)

In apparent vindication of the TV sci-fi cliché, at times resistance truly is futile.

[Wanderer]

What is a Paralipomènes?

The Greek word Παραλειπόμενον (Paraleipómenon) translates to "Paralipomenon" in English. It derives from the Greek verb παραλείπω (paraleípō), meaning "to omit" or "to leave aside" and is often used in the plural, Παραλειπόμενα (Paraleipómena), meaning "things omitted" or "things left out". In literature or scholarship, Paralipomena refers to supplementary or additional material omitted from a main work, such as appendices, addenda, or complementary writings.

The Paralipomènes à la Divina Commedia is the very first version of Liszt's Après une lecture du Dante: Fantasia quasi Sonata (the Dante Sonata) - the term Paralipomènes (French plural of Paralipomenon) denotes "things left out", an appendix, a supplemental or complementary piece to Dante's Divina Commedia.

Παραλειπόμενον/α may be a philological term in English and French but it is also an everyday word in Greek - it's the present passive participle of the verb παραλείπω (to omit, to leave aside, to pass over); its noun, omission, is παράλειψις (paraleipsis).

[Wanderer]

Schopenhauer's Parerga und Paralipomena.

Parerga (πάρεργα) is plural for πάρεργον (parergon), which means secondary work. You may also remember the word from R. Strauss's Parergon zur Symphonia Domestica.

[Wanderer]

A lot of people have quite daft momentos of their personal history inked on their bodies.

But if your girlfriend breaks up with you, you could always look for a new one with the same name. 

What about the music? 

Is it colourful? In bad taste? Indelible? 

(taking clues from the tatouage cover) 

[Mister Sharpe]

The other day I heard on BBC3's Mixed Tape a movement from Poulenc's Gloria, Laudamus te, a really rocking performance of it, performers unidentified. I have a high tolerance level for pop music of all kinds but what came after was an orchestrated version of Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline, which filled me with horror and dread in equal measure (I've never liked Diamond's voice and cannot stand his lyrics). To lose the memory of it, I crave the Gloria compleat. BTW, did you know that the above-mentioned movement was inspired by Poulenc watching some Benedictine monks playing soccer ("le foot")?

 

[Spotted Horses]

Continuing, Hindemith Op 31, No 3, Canonical Sonata for two flutes.



There is only one recording of this piece in the catalog (according to presto). I can't recall hearing music less engaging than this.

[Harry]

MISCHA SPOLIANSKY.
Orchestral Music.
My Husband and I – Overture (1967).
Boogie (1958).
Symphony in Five Movements (c. 1941–69).
Liepāja Symphony Orchestra, Paul Mann.
Recorded: 2021 in the Great Amber Concert Hall, Liepāja, Latvia.
Streaming: FLAC 96kHz/24 bit. Reference recording. PDF file attached.
Label: Chandos.


When I purchased this disc in 2022, I did so with no particular expectation — attracted, as it happens, by the title track My Husband and I, a bright, irreverent overture that radiates British eccentricity and a kind of sly, theatrical charm. I had not anticipated what would follow: a profound musical awakening, and the slow but certain realisation that Mischa Spoliansky is no mere writer of light pastiche, but a composer of immense structural imagination and emotional range.

After repeated listens (now numbering at least thirteen), I found myself entirely absorbed by the extraordinary orchestral skill and contrapuntal insight that Spoliansky reveals across the programme. Boogie continues the wry tone of the overture — cheeky, rhythmically alert, and deceptively clever in its inner workings — but one begins to hear something deeper, more self-assured. The orchestration is compact yet expansive, every gesture placed with architectural care. One senses a master builder at work, laying each brick in perfect balance.

But nothing, absolutely nothing, prepared me for the Symphony in Five Movements. Spanning nearly three decades of composition and revision, it is a work of vast emotional terrain and uncommon sincerity. Each movement carries a title that reads like the stages of human becoming:
– And thus was man created
– Ode to Love
– Humoresque
– Of Weeping
– And new life blooms from the ruins

It is this last line that now haunts me. In light of present-day suffering — especially the war in Ukraine — Spoliansky's symphony resonates like a private prayer made public: a plea for tenderness, a lament for what is lost, and a fragile beacon pointing to what might yet arise. There is nothing sentimental here. The joy is hard-won, the despair never melodramatic, and the final movement carries with it both devastation and a kind of quiet rebirth.

Paul Mann and the Liepāja Symphony Orchestra give a performance of deep commitment and discipline. Every phrase feels lived-in, and there is a quiet humility to the reading that allows Spoliansky's voice to emerge unforced. The recording itself, captured in the luminous acoustic of the Great Amber Concert Hall, is superb — open, dimensional, and filled with air. It is, in every respect, a state-of-the-art production.

This is a disc that entered my life quietly and changed something in me. Spoliansky's voice — by turns witty, wounded, radiant, and resilient — now feels firmly etched into my musical soul. I will return to this symphony not just for its beauty, but for its truth.

Here, in these five movements,
lie the pillars of a world rebuilt:
grief without denial,
love without naïveté,
joy that survives sorrow,
and a final breath that dares to say:
yes, life begins again.


Exile, elegance, and resilience in music.

Born in 1898 in what is now Belarus, Mischa Spoliansky came of age in the vibrant world of Weimar Berlin. There he found success as a cabaret composer, working with the likes of Marlene Dietrich and revolutionising musical theatre with sharp wit, irony, and a distinctly European sense of style. But in 1933, as the Nazi regime rose to power, Spoliansky — a Jewish composer with a fiercely modern voice — was forced into exile.

He fled to London, where he reinvented himself as a film composer, writing scores for British cinema while quietly continuing his work as a concert composer. His later music bears traces of his Berlin roots — irony, precision, bold harmonic language — but also a deeper emotional palette shaped by displacement, survival, and the longing for a homeland that no longer existed.

The Symphony in Five Movements reflects this duality: it is both theatrical and sincere, playful and mournful, grounded in formal control yet overflowing with human feeling. Spoliansky's music, like the man himself, never lost its charm — but it gained, in exile, a profound and lasting soul.

[Harry]

Erich Wolfgang Korngold.
Orchestral works.
Sursum Corda, opus 13.
Sinfonietta, opus 5.
BBC Philharmonic, Matthias Bamert.
Recorded: 1994 at Studio 7, New Broadcasting House, Manchester, UK.
Streaming: FLAC 96kHz/24 bit.
Label: Chandos – No PDF file attached to this recording.


When I first purchased this disc in 1995, I had no idea it would mark the beginning of a lasting relationship with Erich Wolfgang Korngold's music. These two early orchestral works — Sursum Corda and the Sinfonietta — struck me then as vivid, romantic, and highly original, and all these years later, they continue to move me. Since that time, my collection has grown considerably, and streaming now fills in the gaps. Yet I still return to this recording with deep affection.

The version currently available for streaming has been remastered from its original 44.1kHz/16-bit CD release to 96kHz/24-bit, a welcome improvement — though no technical miracle. The original Chandos recording was never one of their finest: warm but somewhat veiled, with a lack of clarity in the treble and a certain softness in inner detail. Even now, it remains a muted soundstage, more blanket than brilliance. Still, one cannot quarrel too much with what has been given. It is listenable, and if approached in silence, with volume raised and ears attuned, much is revealed.

Interpretively, this remains a strong and sensitive performance. Matthias Bamert draws committed, spacious playing from the BBC Philharmonic, capturing the youthful sweep and romantic grandeur of Korngold's vision. These are not light exercises in late-Romantic colour, but substantial, imaginative works that deserve far greater exposure.

The Sinfonietta, written astonishingly at age fifteen, is symphonic in scope and ambition, filled with lyrical invention and shimmering orchestration. Sursum Corda, though less often heard, carries a luminous dignity that feels both spiritual and deeply personal. In both works, Korngold shows the fusion of confidence and emotional vulnerability that would later define his style — a composer suspended between the concert hall and a world soon to vanish.

Yes, other recordings now exist, in clearer sound and with even greater polish. But this one remains close to heart. There is something about the tone, the timing, the quiet sincerity of these readings that makes them difficult to replace. As with certain friendships, it's not perfection that matters, but presence — and this performance has remained present in my listening life for nearly three decades.

Korngold's early symphonic voice.

Erich Wolfgang Korngold (1897–1957) was hailed in his youth as a prodigy of rare gifts — praised by Mahler, championed by Strauss, and composing with astonishing fluency before his twentieth birthday. The Sinfonietta and Sursum Corda, written between the ages of fifteen and twenty, reveal a composer already in command of orchestral colour, lyrical invention, and formal clarity.

Though later celebrated (and often dismissed) for his Hollywood scores, Korngold's early concert music belongs firmly within the Austro-German tradition — opulent, emotionally direct, and harmonically rich. These works remind us that before exile and reinvention, he was a young master with a singular voice — as grounded in the concert hall as in the cinema yet to come.

[Iota]

Shostakovich: Symphony No. 15 in A major
Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, Ashkenazy

The power of the Fifteenth for me lies in its personal quality, this swirling mass of ideas, quotes and moods somehow so coherent and succinct a statement of an inner uncertainty. That something so multifaceted could sound as tightly inevitable and balanced as a Mozart symphony, feeling almost as if it were exhaled in one breath, seems an extraordinary feat and act of inspiration, particularly in light of the grim state of his health.
A fine performance by Ashkenazy and company.

[Que]

I quite like the album, listened to it twice in a row today. Somehow, music like this really works during stressful days.

I hear you. Early Music, Franco-Flemisch polyphony in particular, came to me during darker times in my life, and I found much comfort in it.
And even years later now, a Franco-Flemish mass in the morning feels like a mental shower.

[AnotherSpin]

I hear you. Early Music, Franco-Flemisch polyphony in particular, came to me during darker times in my life, and I found much comfort in it.
And even years later now, a Franco-Flemish mass in the morning feels like a mental shower.

My days are mostly light, even though the bastards from the neighboring country try to spoil them.

But I understand what you mean.

Added: I didn't notice your correction right away. Let me add - for me, it's like a shower that washes away all the mental rust, along with fears, worries, heavy thoughts, and all the other rubbish.