The decades immediately following World War II constituted a flourishing period of musical innovation on the international scene, encompassing a considerable range of stylistic orientations and techniques. Exploration that led to genuinely innovative compositional practices involving relationships among melody, harmony, rhythm, and timbre reached fruition by the mid-1980s. Accordingly, the challenge to composers who emerged during this latter period was twofold: to develop personal styles through a discriminating selection from this large heritage of techniques and stylistic resources – and, in the process, to avoid imitating composers who had used them earlier. In countries not dominated by any particular compositional doctrine – most notably the United States, Great Britain and the Nordic countries – important composers emerged as consolidators who combined and synthesized these resources in a fresh and individual manner. One who has responded most successfully to this challenge is Finland's Magnus Lindberg.

In this interview Gubaidulina discusses her understanding of religion and the way in which it relates to her music, by means of symbolism and metaphor. In particular she speaks of her understanding of the Apocalypse as a book of light, greatly influenced by the writings of Fr Aleksandr Men. She talks about the symbolism of instruments in her work, notably percussion, which she sees as a way to the subconscious; her understanding of the role of modernism in music, and the way in which her work connects with this historical process; and also her use of the Fibonacci sequence. The relationship of her music to liturgy is discussed, as is the double path, apparently contradictory, of the artist who composes both liturgical and concert music. The experience of the composer during the profound changes in music during the 20th century, specifically as regards possible intersections between modernism and spirituality, are also discussed.

In an effort to discover a more personal style, free of Wagnerian overtones and more truly representative of English culture, Hoist took the curious step of studying the Rig Veda in considerable depth. The year was 1907, a time when others too were searching for different ideas. In America the young Henry Cowell, disillusioned with romantic harmonies, sought (about 1908) new rhythmic and melodic possibilities in Oriental music and studied it under Oriental teachers. The year 1908 was important for Schoenberg, then—with the support of his close friends—on the point of bursting the chromatic dam to release expressionistic torrents. Beset with similar stylistic problems, Hoist went instead to Luzac & Co, an orientalist bookseller, and bought the two volumes of Ralph Griffith's translations of The Hymns of the Rigveda, the most ancient literature in the world. Through these hymns he returned to the source of Indo-Aryan culture in the hope that a new type of music, free of former constraints, would be suggested to him.

The music of Icelandic composer Anna Thorvaldsdóttir has been inspired by nature, not in a manner that results in specific pictorial evocation, but in the sense that her reflections on natural phenomenon are catalysts for explorations of a range of compositional polarities, including flow and stasis, stability and volatility, transparency and opacity, and expansion and contraction. Her observation of droning as a natural state has led to a dynamic creative use of drones that challenges and expands commonly held notions of their compositional potential. The article discusses their use, along with other compositional devices and processes, in the delineation of these polarities and the resulting formal structure of selected works for orchestra and chamber orchestra. These resources include disruption devices and morphing techniques that facilitate overlapping and transformation of layers of material. The particular compositional focus of each piece has led to fresh applications of these resources, imparting a distinct character to each piece and contributing to an ongoing renewal of the composer's compositional palette.

At centenaries we usually invite those who have special knowledge of a given figure to attempt a statement of a career, and argue for revaluation. At the very least the ordinary music-lover is usually given the opportunity to hear a range of unfamiliar music and make a personal decision. (Furthermore, with the modern phenomenon of home tape-recording, unofficial tapes get into circulation which ensure that judgements, whether right or wrong, are never again merely the handing-down of prejudiced statements from one writer to the next.) However, the centenary which falls on 5 January is particularly worthy of note, for it is that of a composer potentially of great interest—the subject of innumerable footnotes in reference books—but almost totally unheard, owing to a long history of suppression of his art in his native Russia. I refer to Nikolai Andreievitch Roslavets, one of the most advanced composers of his time: an early investigator of serial techniques, whose musical revolutionary passion was strongly linked to his support for the proletarian revolution, and who ultimately had to sublimate his musical tenets in order to accord with political developments with which it would appear he was not musically at ease.

The position of Aaron Copland as the dominant figure in contemporary American music has now won fairly widespread recognition over here; but the recognition does not depend on any very extensive knowledge of his works. It is general rather than specific; and indeed on the few occasions when his more important works have been played over here, they have been accorded a somewhat unsympathetic reception. Unlike most English critics, I happen to find Copland's music congenial and appealing. It is for this reason that I feel I may be able to make a few points about the nature and significance of his achievement that seem to have been, in this country, overlooked. I shall confine my attention to the two recent sonatas—for piano and for violin and piano—because they are relatively accessible and quotable, and because they are completely representative and amongst the most concentrated and mature of his works.

‘Communism is dead’, crowed a recent Prime Minister, little realizing that the shaky condition of capitalism would precipitate her downfall in short order. ‘Socialist art is a phenomenon of the past’, pronounced many post-modernist critics, who equated creative expressions of radical politics with a modernist aesthetic they had already consigned to their re-interpretation of history. Yet as the developed economies totter from one crisis to the next, interspersed with stock market upheavals or corruption scandals, and the ‘new world order’ fails to materialize, a new left-wing idealism is beginning to assert itself in the work of several German composers, and the growing number of discs of their music testifies to the existence of a substantial international audience for their output. It is a movement of considerable diversity, but also genuine sophistication, for it takes account of the limitation of modernism, and is not averse to encompassing expressions of radicalism from the ‘romantic’ era, where appropriate. Thus, it does not shun post-modernism, but incorporates those features which have not been sucked into the new world chaos, or into the prevalent nostalgia, usually associated with the banner of ‘pluralism’. Above all, the new radicalism reaffirms certain fundamental truths, respected by socialism, which have been overlooked both by postmodernists and proponents of the ‘new world order’. It also asserts the importance of artistic integrity at a time when consumerism is undermining creative values.

If one were seeking a metaphor for Ave Mavis Stella from among one's familiar musical experience, all the signs would point to a late Beethoven quartet. Of course the analogy between a string quartet and a sextet of mixed timbre is not literal, while the comparison of a work not yet two years old with some of the most visionary pieces ever written could be misconstrued, even if one swore it was only for analytical purposes as one was dragged screaming away to serve a five-year term for pretentiousness. But fortunately real affinity among composers and between pieces of music is not a function of our historical neuroses, and there are encouraging signs that sensitive and aware listeners can hear that it is not. One such friend of mine, having just heard Ave Maris for the second time, remarked that the first hearing some months earlier had thrown him into a kind of ‘2001’ outer space, while at the second hearing he realized he was listening to an absolutely classical piece of chamber music. In fact, as we will see, his two statements are very far from antithetical. At any rate, there is every reason to hope that such a listener, given a finite number of further hearings, would himself make the jump from ‘an absolutely classical piece of chamber music’ to ‘a late Beethoven quartet’ without any difficulty.

As a young pianist, whenever I listened to a recording by Artur Rubinstein, the music always sounded wonderfully convincing. But then, when it came down to studying the score, it was somewhat disturbing to find that he often performed the music in ways that were contrary to the score. This experience provoked many thoughts and discussions regarding ‘authenticity’, artistic ‘greatness’, and the changing contexts of performance practice.

During the 20 years that followed the completion of his first vocal work, The sayings of Páter Boniemisza op.7 (1963–68), György Kurtág established himself as a composer with an exceptional aptitude for vocal writing. His compositions for voice outweigh those for instruments alone in both quantity and substance throughout this period, during which his second string quartet, Hommage à Mihály András (12 Microludes) op. 13 (1977), is a ravishingly beautiful anomaly.

The Paris Festival of Masterpieces of the 20th Century lasted throughout May, and few had time to see it all. Unlike many foreign festivals that spread themselves out over a similar period, it was crammed tight with good things throughout, with something of interest every night except Sundays from 30 April to 1 June. The third week was the climax of the festival, and in general the last two weeks were more exciting than the first two, which were apparently meant to draw the Parisian bourgeoisie, being devoted mainly to ballet by the New York City Ballet, and containing nothing in music worth a journey abroad except perhaps two performances by the Vienna Opera of Wozzeck, which is rapidly becoming as familiar as The Rite of Spring. In the last two weeks, the festival's so-called literary conferences on cultural freedom were held, and to give these the best possible chance of wide publicity, the organizers had cleverly saved up their musical trump cards until then, with what was virtually a Stravinsky-Bartók-Schoenberg week, Stravinsky himself conducting his two late symphonies and Oedipus Rex, with Cocteau as producer, designer, narrator (and of course librettist), followed in the last week by Billy Budd conducted by Britten, excerpts from Milhaud's setting of the Oresteia, and Virgil Thomson's Four Saints in Three Acts.

Like his name he was both dapper and ungainly. His clothes came from Lanvin but were unpressed; his hands were scrubbed, but the fingernails were bitten to the bone. His physiognomy showed a cross between weasel and trumpet, and featured a large nose through which he wittily spoke. His sunswept apartment on the Luxembourg was elegantly toned in orange plush, but the floors squeaked annoyingly. His social predilections were for duchesses and policemen, though he was born and lived as a wealthy bourgeois. His villa in Noizay was austere and immaculate, but surrounded by densely careless arbors. There he wrote the greatest vocal music of our century, all of it technically impeccable—and truly vulgar. He was deeply devout and uncontrollably sensual.

A. T. Gretchaninoff's work as a composer embraces all branches of music. In opera, in symphony, in chamber music and in liturgical music, Gretchaninoff has created inspired and profound works which have enriched Russian musical literature. But perhaps the most deeply felt and original of his compositions are in the field of song. His subtle knowledge of the potentialities of the human voice, and the extraordinarily beautiful piano accompaniment, which never intrudes but always gives expressive illustration to the text, make his romances and songs unsurpassed in the vocal literature of Russia and, indeed, of the rest of the world. Many of his songs long ago became popular both in Russia and in other countries. Thus, at the beginning of this century there was no important singer in Russia whose repertory did not include Gretchaninoff's songs. More than that, they spread among the mass of the people and became a part of its heritage. In every home where there was an interest in music or song, one heard the famous Berceuse (Op. 1, No. 5), Quand la hache tombe (Op. 1, No. 2), Triste est la steppe (Op. 5, No. 1), and many Other songs written by Gretchaninoff in his youth. It may be said that Gretchaninoff's songs were as popular in Russia at that time as Schubert's or Schumann's are in Germany. Subsequently these songs spread to Western Europe and America as well. The songs of Gretchaninoff's early period gained wide popularity, being most easily understood by the wide public. But the most musically valuable and the most mature and inspired of his songs remained relatively less well-known. And yet it is precisely in these songs that the composer's individuality and musical inspiration attained their full stature.

The Carl Rosa Opera, the only all-touring opera company left in the world in this age of high travelling costs, has fallen on difficult days. No doubt the provincial British cities should count themselves lucky that any opera company visits them at all. In the United States, Fortune Gallo's San Carlo Opera Company, which used to cross the continent with productions as good as the Carl Rosa's pre-war best, has not been on the move for more than a decade, and the only itinerant spectacles of the kind are packaged single operas sent out from time to time by various New York concert managers.

The Rosenkavalier has run like a lovely musical theme through my whole life in opera. Sophie was the first important rôle which was entrusted to me as a beginner. The conductor, Gustav Brecher, even considered letting me do the première in Hamburg. I think that was in 1911—the second year of my engagement there, but then he thought better of it and gave the part for the first performance to Elisabeth Schumann. She was dramatically much more talented than I, and in spite of her youth had already given evidence of her delightful gift for acting and her ripening artistry in several rôles; while I was still very much in the background and really nothing more than an ignorant and awkward beginner with a nice voice. Then too, Edith Walker, who sang and acted Octavian quite enchantingly, wanted Schumann as Sophie, for which I certainly couldn't blame her. But at the time I was bitterly disappointed and saw everything in a very false light. I felt persecuted and surrounded by intrigue—how I laughed later on over this ridiculous idea! Elisabeth's whole being is worlds apart from any intrigue; she has always been the best colleague one could imagine—a wonderful character through and through. And Edith Walker certainly had no ground for persecuting me with disfavour as the stupid little beginner imagined. She only wanted the performance to be as fine as possible, and so very wisely chose Elizabeth. But suddenly I found myself only the understudy, and sat through the stage rehearsals in the hall gnashing my teeth and comforting myself with the thought that I was the dramatic victim of a finely woven intrigue. Later, when Schumann was not available, I was allowed to sing Sophie and had a very nice success with it.