Neville Cardus Talks Of Music

Press, Volume XCVII, Issue 28606, 7 June 1958, Page 3

Neville Cardus Talks Of Music

[Reviewed by

J.A.R.]

Talking Of Music. By NevilleCardus. Collins. 320 pp. An unusually profound Cardus emerges from this volume. There is still present the infectious love for his job, the nostalgic worship of the old days in Manchester, the sidelong glance at his first love, cricket, and a downright flirtation with a new interest, books. But the reckless Shavian verbal fun for its own sake is. to some extent, gone. Neville Cardus is now taking his Mahler and Bruckner as seriously as, by heredity, he takes his LancashireYorkshire matches. The Halle Orchestra, its conductors, traditions and standards form the background to much that is written in the early chapters. As we rejoice in the centenary of this great Manchester institution and revel in the retention of its cultural individuality, it is not a little significant to observe the influence it has had upon a man who would probably have come to music in dny event. In retrospect, it is easy to see that, under the guidance of men like Halle, Richter, Harty and Barbirolli, the orchestra has avoided embracing the cosmopolitanism of its more southern neighbours and has become rooted to the fundamental culture of a great city. But it requires wisdom and skill to explain why and how this has happened. Cardus succeeds as only a Mancunian could.

These 50 or so essays are culled from his more recent contributions to the “Manchester Guardian.” Beginning with a few well-known conductors about whom he has gathered some new anecdotes, he proceeds to examine composers as far apart as Liszt and Stravinsky. Wolf and Schoenberg. Sagacious judgments abound and reflect a maturity of outlook on the part of the author which in the past, perhaps, has been disguised by a chronic sense of humour. Has it been written before that Stravinsky is the greatest composer of ballet? And of the same composer, is not the most pertinent question to be asked: “Behind all the masks, which is the face, lined with the soul and experience?” Coming from a critic whose stamping ground has for long been the traditional repertory and the art of performance, this penetration of the contemporary creative scene is welcome. It is possible to accept this book as the obiter dicta of a discerning listener applied to recent developments, but based upon an aesthetic whose fundamentals spring from all that is best and accepted from the past.

Perhaps the reason for Cardus’s new facade is that, for once, he appears to be on the defensive. It is probable that this may be a direct result of some of tne more petulant outbursts of disappointed composers. Of these Benjamin Britten is notable. But musical journalism possesses few better apologists, for while the author is humble enough to admit that “music criticism is, of course, still in its infancy” this must not be taken as mere, backsliding. He takes the battle right into the enemy’s camp, armed with some happy similes and one pointed interrogation. “What,” he asks, “would the latest symphonist, grappling with a tonerow or a pyramid of superimposed fourths, do with a lovely C majo» nielody i_ one suddenly occurred to him?” This may be lighthearted; it may even be superficial, but it does expose that nagging doubt which we all at one time or another succumb to. The composer is forced to ask himself how, if he is to be consistent, is it that he must reject what the heart dictates in favour of what the method demands.

Cardus is still able to attack “the latter day solemnity” in his pled for more humour in critical writing and to explain that he himself has resorted to technical jargon in his more “sterile moments.” Nor does he flinch over “fashion” in music. In bemoaning an alleged present decline in British music, he points to the opulent decade which saw the birth of Elgar’s symphonies, the violin concerto and . 'alstaff, Deliusls greatest works and to the thirties when Walton’s masterpieces were proauced. His argument, of course, is with the practitioners of empirical systems in composition—one might even add, the British practitioners of them. A point that might have been laboured more is that those composers who have made only passing use of techniques such as atonalism and twelve note rows, have more successfully retained some degree of recognisable personality in their music. The time may soon come when “Punch” will sigh for “the good old tunes of Bartok and Britten.” It will then be coming into line with Cardus’s plea, because these are two who have avoided falling into the hands of a system of fabricated music.

Beyond this a wide field is covered. Amongst the topics are Hugo Wolf’s songs, the genius of Liszt, British opera, “What is a Banal Tune,” the “Objective Ear” and so on. Finally there is a classic biography of that very unknown European master, Erich Hartleibig, with profuse analyses and thematic quotations. Only in the most literal sense can it be said of this book, “It’s not cricket”