Oh my goodness! The conductor Kenneth Alwyn has died.
Alwyn recorded many popular classics and much film music. I remember the thrill of discovering his first, extensive digital recordings of music from “The Bride of Frankenstein” and “The Quiet Man” – two of my desert island film scores – in the bins at Tower Records.
He also conducted Decca’s first stereophonic recording of the “1812 Overture” and several albums devoted to the works of Richard Addinsell, including, of course, the ubiquitous “Warsaw Concerto.”
He was an experienced ballet and musical theater conductor. He held posts at the Sadler’s Wells Theatre Ballet and the Royal Ballet, Covent Garden. He served as musical director at the English premieres of many British and Broadway musicals. He recorded ballet music by Lord Berners. He made at least two very fine recordings of works by Samuel Coleridge-Taylor, including the complete oratorio, “The Song of Hiawatha.”
Some of Alwyn’s other memorable records include albums devoted to Max Steiner, a selection of music from Ealing Studios comedies, and orchestral highlights from classic British film scores by Vaughan Williams, Sir Arthur Bliss, and others. For Silva records, he led collections devoted to Alfred Newman, Miklós Rózsa, and Ennio Morricone, as well as any number of thematically-organized anthologies.
In 1992, he toured with the BBC Concert Orchestra, with his friend, Dudley Moore, at the piano.
Alwyn died yesterday at the age of 95. By coincidence, I happened to include his recording of Sir Arnold Bax’s “Oliver Twist” on last night’s broadcast of “Picture Perfect,” and on Friday, shipped his recording of Paul Ben-Haim’s Symphony No. 2, as part of a Christmas mailing to a friend.
One of the things I love about foreign countries is that, historically, their composers haven’t been blackballed for writing film music. In fact, some of the most esteemed have made significant contributions to the form: Prokofiev, Shostakovich, Honegger, Milhaud, Vaughan Williams, and Walton, to name a few. In America, Aaron Copland or John Corigliano aside, there has been a sharp, critical divide between “serious” composer and “film composer,” as if the latter somehow automatically implies hack work. And depending on a musician’s ability and artistic freedom, I suppose it all-too-frequently does.
I’m sure there are plenty of foreigners that only wish they could make the kind of money writing film music they could here in the U.S. It’s easy to romanticize when you’re not the one breaking your back for a modest pay day! Composers don’t come any more esteemed, in England anyway, than the Master of the Queen’s Music. Yet, in having to earn a living, even a Master’s candidate may sometimes find it necessary to get his hands dirty.
Since the 17th century, Masters have assumed their post with the expectation that they would write music for important milestones in the lives of the Royal Family and for ceremonial occasions. Past Masters of the Queen’s (or King’s) Music have included John Eccles (who served four monarchs), William Boyce, John Stanley, Sir Edward Elgar, Sir Arnold Bax, and Sir Arthur Bliss. The appointment is an honor, to be sure, but the responsibility brings with it a certain amount of pressure.
When Malcolm Williamson, Australian by birth, was appointed as the successor to Bliss in 1975, there was grumbling among his colleagues. Sir William Walton attributed the choice to a utilitarian need for “cementing the cracks in the Commonwealth.” He confided to Sir Malcolm Arnold (who most certainly would have brought his own set of problems) that “they had got the wrong Malcolm.” Arnold, a sporadically brilliant composer, was also a manic depressive (and possibly bipolar), who survived alcoholism and multiple suicide attempts.
Williamson’s great sin was that he was very bad with deadlines (and for that, he certainly has my sympathy). Most particularly, he failed to complete a symphony in time for the Queen’s Golden Jubilee in 1977. His ambitious “Mass for Christ the King,” also intended for the occasion, was also delivered late. Significantly, he was the first Master of the Queen’s (or King’s) Music in over a century not to be knighted.
Following the Jubilee debacle, his output slowed, though he was seldom unproductive. In all, he wrote seven symphonies, concertos for piano, violin, organ, harp and saxophone, and numerous other orchestral, choral, chamber and instrumental works.
Williamson suffered from ill health in his later years. He too turned to the bottle, and it can only be speculated if depression and the stress of trying to hold his head high as a colonial outsider at the Royal court contributed to his decline. Those close to him assert that toward the end of his life, Williamson never drank, but rather struggled with aphasia, the result of a series of strokes.
What’s certain is that he was the first non-Briton to be named Master. Following his death in 2003, the parameters of the appointment were revised. The position is no longer one for life, but rather a fixed, ten-year term. Sir Peter Maxwell Davies was the first to serve under the new guidelines. He was succeeded in 2015 by Judith Weir, the first woman to hold the post (and yes, she is still referred to as “Master”).
Like many of his colleagues (Bliss and Bax did it too), Williamson wrote a fair amount of music for the cinema, admittedly for films of varying quality. It’s always amusing to discover his name in the opening credits of Hammer productions like “The Brides of Dracula” and “The Horror of Frankenstein.” But, as the prehistoric appliances on “The Flintstones” often remarked… it’s a living.
If we’re to go by “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde” (1931), “The Black Cat” (1934), “The Raven” (1935), “Sunset Boulevard” (1950), “20,000 Leagues Under the Sea” (1954), “The Great Race” (1965), “Rollerball” (1975), and “The Phantom of the Opera” (1962, and not infrequently 1925), Johann Sebastian Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D minor is the depraved anthem of cinematic psychopathy, degeneracy, and dystopia.
“The Silence of the Lambs” (1991) opts for something a bit more elegant. Here is an academic essay on Hannibal Lecter’s fondness for the “Goldberg Variations.”
This week on “Picture Perfect,” thrill to the distinctive extraterrestrial timbre of this whooping, whistling, wailing electronic instrument invented by Leon Theremin in 1928. The theremin may be unique of its kind in that it is played without actual physical contact. Pitch and volume are determined by the proximity of a player’s hands to two antennae. You won’t find any frets on this one!
That said, it can certainly generate fret. Brace yourself for eerie, at times otherworldly selections from “The Thing” by Dimitri Tiomkin (great music for cooking carrots), “Ed Wood” by Howard Shore (Tim Burton’s love letter to the director of “Plan 9 from Outer Space”), “Rocketship X-M” by Ferde Grofé (composer of the “Grand Canyon Suite”), and, one week after the death of Rhonda Fleming, Alfred Hitchcock’s “Spellbound” (with Academy Award winning music by Miklós Rózsa).
If you’ve got a THING for theremins, you’ll want to be on “hand” (or maybe not). I hope you’ll join me for madness, monsters, and Martians, on “Picture Perfect,” this Saturday evening at 6:00 EDT, on WWFM – The Classical Network and wwfm.org.
PEOPLE OF EARTH: WWFM is in the midst of its fall fundraiser. If, like me, you find great film music to be out of this world, please consider supporting it. Your donation online at wwfm.org allows us to continue to bring you stellar specialty programs like “Picture Perfect.” Thank you for your part in maintaining quality film music on the astral airwaves!
Paws for a litter of music from films with catty titles and characters, including selections from “Cat People” (Roy Webb), “The Wind and the Lion” (Jerry Goldsmith), “To Catch a Thief” (Lyn Murray), and “The Leopard” (Nino Rota).
It’s a stretch for feline tails, as purr the theme. Don’t forget, “Picture Perfect” has moved to a new time. The cats are out of the bag, this Saturday evening at 6:00 EDT, on WWFM – The Classical Network and wwfm.org.
