The last year has been one of great significance for Ian Venables; a year that has by chance coincided with his first as a full time composer. As well as seeing premiere performances at such as Wigmore Hall, it has seen three commercial recordings: a disc of songs and chamber music on Signum Records, including his String Quartet—perhaps one of Venables’s most original works; a disc of chamber music issued by Somm Records, notably including the Piano Quintet; and a disc of song on the ubiquitous Naxos label. This latter disc is the first in Naxos’s English Song Series—a series taken over from Collins Classics upon their demise—to be devoted to the work of a living composer, and it is disc with which I am concerned here.
The Naxos recording opens with the most significant work on this disc: the premiere recording of the 2005–6 song cycle for tenor, clarinet and piano, On the Wings of Love. The title of the work is an intriguing one: although it doesn’t admit so in the otherwise usefully informative CD sleeve notes, the title of the cycle is drawn from Plato’s Symposium, which, Venables writes elsewhere, examines ‘the various forms that love can take’, looking at love in its broadest sense, ‘not just in the realm of human affection’. The one overarching theme, however, is the constancy of love. In whatever form it takes, it is ever present; in place and heart; from gods to mortals.
The opening song of the cycle, ‘Ionian Song’—a setting of words by the Greek poet Constantine Cavafy—somehow eptitomises Venables; it is almost a distillation of his work. The opening chord is perhaps one of Venables’s favourite: an E minor chord with added seventh and minor ninth that seems to open the vault of existential questioning. The lamenting figurations in the piano and clarinet are dominated by the interval of a minor third, which, although common in music, Venables appears to fashion into a unique thumbprint. Through this accompaniment the voice poses its long lyric narrative, beginning low in the register and gradually ascending to the light upper voice. The clarinet writing in this song—a perfect counterpoint to the voice and piano, here, as in the rest of the cycle—seems redolent of Herbert Howells’s intense lyrical clarinet sonata.
The outer sections of the second song, a setting of a poem by Federico Garcia Lorca, pick up on its opening lines: ‘The moon sails out / the church bells die away’. Far from dying away, the clarinet, piano and voice all take on the turning figure of the bells, constantly intertwining, the sound of the bells seeming to live on in he memory. The sound of bells continue into the third song, a setting of Jean de Sponde’s ‘Sonnet XI’, in which we find the heart of the cycle. This bell-like tone illustrates the timelessness o the cycle, which aspires to eternity in its conception and breadth, and in its u