I think the first thing to be said is that it’s fantastic that young singers are being exposed to contemporary music of such quality. More than that, they’re not performing established contemporary works, which would be admirable in its own right, but actually giving the first performances, and thereby starting the performance tradition for these pieces. What an experience that must be!

I don’t believe I’ve ever encountered the music of Lynne Plowman before. Her piece Cries like Silence is written for SATB soloists, choir, orchestra and organ, with optional children’s choir, brass band, electric guitars and bass drums. I’m not certain that the brass band and electric guitars are used in this recording; I think perhaps not. For her text Miss Plowman has chosen to combine two poems, these children singing in stone by e.e.cummings and Crow’s Account of the Battle from Crow by Ted Hughes. In her booklet note the composer tells us that her intention “was to compose a work which would challenge and excite the accomplished young musicians….contrasting dynamic and dramatic story-telling with poignant and lyrical music.” I’d say that she’s certainly succeeded in her aim of providing contrasting music and I would be amazed if she’d failed in the first part of her objective. In brief, the cummings setting, which is fairly quiet, begins the work. There’s innocence in the vocal writing for high voices (children) and female soloists. The substantial middle section is a gripping, vivid setting of what Miss Plowman aptly describes as Hughes’ “dark and visceral” words. The music is much more jagged and disturbing than that which we heard in the opening cummings section. After a powerful climax the opening music is reprised. Does it now speak to us of innocence despite war or of innocence that will, in time, be corrupted by the violence of our world? I suspect that the thunderous, dull drum-roll with which the piece concludes, after the voices have been silenced, provides us with the answer.  This is a provocative, disturbing piece and I suspect it made a huge impact on the young performers, just as it did on this listener.

Cecilia McDowall’s Ave Maris Stella falls more easily on the ear, though that’s not a coded way of saying it’s a lesser piece of music. It’s the only piece on the disc that’s not in English – Miss McDowall uses verses from the old Marian hymn, which refers to the Virgin Mary as the Star of the Sea, and some verses from Psalms 26 and 106, all of them in Latin. The choice of Ave Maris Stella as a text is appropriate given the naval traditions of Portsmouth.

Writing of Ave Maris Stella Hubert Culot opined that it reminded him of Finzi and he also compared the melodic invention with that of John Rutter. I wouldn’t dissent but I’d add that the piece reminds me at times of some of the choral music of Morten Lauridsen. It’s a finely crafted and poetic work, scored for soprano solo, choir and strings. I enjoyed hearing it again in this very good performance.

Tarik O’Regan’s music is attracting a lot of interest these days and the vocal works of his that I’ve heard have all seemed to me to be very interesting indeed. His 2005 piece, And There Was A Great Calm, should enhance still further his reputation. Nowadays the composer divides his time between Cambridge and New York. He writes of this piece that his dual residency played a part in the style of the piece because it contains some of what one might term “traditional” memorial material but also music with more of an urban edge. It’s divided into two sections, the first of which is, in his words, “quiet and gentle (a moment of recollection), while the second is much faster and vibrant (the texts here dealing with transmigration [of souls] and the future. Put simply, And There Was A Great Calm begins looking back and ends going forward”.

I think that’s a marvellous and highly original conception for a Remembrance piece and I believe that O’Regan pulls it off. Thus the first section consists of slow, haunting and contemplative music for high voices and soprano solo accompanied by the string orchestra that O’Regan uses throughout. The second part follows without a break and is much more propulsive. The music does indeed have ‘edge’ but I find both the music and, for the most part, the words that O’Regan has selected, have an air of optimism. For much of this section the music has the character of a vigorous dance, with the choir repeating melodic phrases over a strongly rhythmical string accompaniment that recalls the heyday of the American minimalists. There’s a short pause for a calm soprano solo over slow, ethereal string chords before the dance resumes and the piece hurtles to a sudden end. This is a most imaginative and impressive piece.

The most substantial offering is by Sally Beamish. Her The Lion And The Deer, which falls into six sections, ambitiously brings together English translations of poems by the fourteenth century Persian metaphysical poet, Hafez, and excerpts from haikus contained in a collection, War and Conflicts, written by Year 7 pupils at Portsmouth Grammar School. The haiku excerpts are read by pupils at the school. The piece is scored for countertenor, choir, a small group of strings and trumpet and cello soloists – here the excellent Paul Archibald and Sebastian Comberti respectively. Incidentally, there’s a nice link in that Sally Beamish pursued a career as an orchestral violist before becoming a full-time composer and between 1985 and 1987 she was principal violist of the London Mozart Players. The work is ingenious, though it’s not easy to grasp, I find. The use of the counter-tenor in particular imparts a suitably Arabian feel to the music and Michael Chance is certainly given some challenging and atmospheric music, to which he responds with his customary eloquence. He and the two solo instruments, the trumpet in particular, carry the argument in the first movement. The following section uses the chorus and the music is more complex, with multi-layered textures and greater use of the spoken haiku interjections. Much of the music in the whole work is moderate or slow in pulse but the fourth movement, ‘Lion’, which is the most extrovert section of the piece, is much quicker in tempo. The choir mainly sings sustained chords and it’s the vigorous orchestral part that, for the most part, drives the music forward.

The counter-tenor returns for the next movement, ‘Horse’, and is given some powerfully dramatic, declamatory music. Frequently pounding timpani suggest the horse’s hooves. The final section reprises material from the opening movement though this time round the solo trumpet, important at the start, is silent. The last few minutes of this, the most extended section, are very affecting with choir and the gently keening counter-tenor gradually bringing the music to a quiet close.

I confess that I don’t feel that I’ve really got to grips with this demanding piece yet. In part I think it’s because I am confused by the subject matter. Sally Beamish tells us that “by placing Hafez’ words in the context of Remembrance Day, I hoped to reflect an ultimate human goal – a theme of enduring love.” I get the connection between Remembrance and human love but for me the chosen Hafez poems don’t really express loving sentiments in a way that I readily comprehend. Maybe I’ll get it in time and so come to a better appreciation of this piece and I’m sure others will understand it much better than I do from the outset. The Lion And The Deer is certainly a challenging piece and it must be very difficult to perform. However, it sounds as if the young singers and the members of the LMP rise to the occasion splendidly.

Faced with over an hour of music that’s both intellectually and musically difficult the Portsmouth singers acquit themselves splendidly. They’ve obviously been trained with great skill and understanding by their respective choir masters, with the lion’s share of the work falling on Andrew Cleary, the Director of Music at Portsmouth Grammar School and of its Chamber Choir. As with all the best youth choirs, the singing on this disc has freshness, vigour and, where required, an appropriate edge. Above all, it’s the enthusiasm and commitment of these young that shines through and impresses. They are fortunate to have excellent professional collaborators in the shape of the London Mozart Players and some very good vocal soloists. Nicholas Moldoveanu conducts with rhythmic acuity and evident belief in the music.

The recorded sound is first rate, as is the comprehensive documentation. Absolutely no allowances need be made for the fact that school choirs are involved in these performances. This disc contains some exciting and original modern choral music, splendidly performed.

This transformation is embodied in the other two works here, both of which once existed in respectable vinyl incarnations. The Organ Concerto of 1970, which could very well be the best of its kind by any Englishman, was issued on Hyperion during the 1980s, paired with two smashing early pieces by Michael Berkeley: the “Uprising” Symphony and the delightful theme-and-variations Romance of the Rose. The concerto’s structure is typical of the composer—two longer dramatically craggy and primarily slow movements bracketing a brief scherzo. The opening passacaglia-based “Lament” is one of Leighton’s darkest statements, which the short middle movement Toccata does little to dispel; in fact, it seems to ratchet up the level of tension and gloom. The finale—a quarter-hour Chorale and Variations which is slightly longer than the other two movements together—is the crowning glory of the work. Putting his two major ideas through a wide diversity of treatments that, after a great deal of struggle, Leighton ends in a radiantly resigned Andante.

The Concerto for Strings of 1960–61, one of Leighton’s earliest and most fully accomplished efforts in his mature style, adheres to the same general pattern. The central three-minute all-pizzicato Scherzo seems almost an afterthought separating the two larger-scale outer movements, which are drenched in anguish and fury. The best way to convey the experience of this tautly executed and densely thematically interrelated music is to draw parallels with our country’s Benjamin Lees: had he been born an Englishman (instead of in China!—not that this had any real influence), he might have come out sounding like Leighton.

Incidentally, the Concerto was once available in the late 1960s on a Pye Virtuosi LP, which also included the only recording to date of John McCabe’s powerful First Symphony “Elegy,” in a performance by the London Philharmonic strings under John Snashall. Needless to say, Hickox, with the assistance of Chandos’s expanded acoustic, easily improves upon the earlier recordings, offering much more clarity and insight into Leighton’s sedulous and deliberate knitting together of motifs while suffusing the whole with a high degree of tension, intensity, and even an atmosphere of fatalism.

Let us hope future volumes in this series concentrate on the three piano concertos, the three of the four numbered symphonies not yet recorded, and the three dance suites. Leighton’s rich orchestral catalog offers a wealth of possibilities.

There is an ecstatic quality to the cycles "Trois Melodies" and "Chants de Terre et de Ciel" (Songs of the Earth and Sky), all swooning lyricism and moonlit atmosphere. These are deeply French, high-art songs, crafted like jewels. But they also have an effortless naturalism, especially with a singer like LeBlanc. The soprano, in her mid-40s, has specialized in Baroque repertoire, but she has also explored the folk tunes of her Acadian heritage. Her tone is silvery, clear and floating (with the barest vibrato), her phrasing intimate like she's singing just for you. These qualities are ideal, as Messiaen's songs are about romantic faith and spiritual love.

The piano parts are rich, with Messiaen giving impressionistic harmony a modernist update. The composer's first wife was a violinist, and he wrote several pieces for her, including the ravishingly lyrical "Vocalise" for violin and piano, played lovingly here by Laura Andriani. Also included is the melodious "Theme et Variations" for violin and piano, with Andriani taking it at flowing pace while managing the most poetic close.

The rarity here is "La Mort du Nombre," a dramatic mini-cantata for soprano, tenor, violin and piano by the 21-year-old Messiaen that shows the influence of Wagner's love music through the prism of Debussy's "Pelleas et Melisande." Lawrence Wiliford may sound a bit callow next to LeBlanc, but they entwine intensely enough, the piece ending with shimmering, love-struck piano.

Humor (and a healthy dose of nonsense) frames the program, beginning with Howard Skempton's Pigs could fly (to his own text) and ending with a set of short pieces by Nicholas Maw titled Calico Pie. This includes such songs as "We're all in the dumps" and "Did you ever" (with lines like "Did you eever iver ever in your leaf life loaf/See the devil divil devil kiss his weef wife woaf?"--you owe it to yourself to hear how Maw deals with those words!). In between are Britten's Corpus Christi Carol (adapted from his choral variations A Boy was Born) and clever version of the madrigal text "Now is the month of maying", Vaughan Williams' lovely setting of a Shakespeare text, Dirge for Fidele, some splendidly written pieces by New London Children's Choir founder/conductor Ronald Corp (the set of Flower Songs, to texts by Robert Herrick, is outstanding), and two song sets by Richard Rodney Bennett--The Aviary (five pieces to texts by Coleridge, Shelley, Tennyson, and John Clare) and The Insect World.

As for the scary stuff, you can't beat Arthur Bliss' masterful setting of Shelley's poem "A widow bird sate mourning" (you can literally hear--and feel--the "frozen wind"!) or Tansy Davies' Oven in the underworld, or John Woolrich's No Hiding Place Down There ("A sinner man sat on the gates of hell..."). Peter Maxwell Davies' Shepherds of Hoy, Bob Chilcott's The lily and the rose, and Philip Godfrey's Day by day (the beloved text by Richard of Chichester) are special highlights that certainly will inspire some choral-director listeners to begin an immediate search for the scores.

With only one exception the music here is absolutely first class, worthy of a choir as well-tuned, technically assured, charismatic, and well-rehearsed as the New London Children's Choir, who bring us more than an hour of uplifting, often unusual, and always memorable singing. The exception, not surprisingly, is John Tavener's Notre Père, which sounds as if dashed off in a few uninspired minutes; however, the choir makes the absolute best of it. My only other reservation concerns the lack of texts in the liner booklet. You have to go online to find them--which wouldn't be so bad if locating the correct page were easier. And not all of the texts are available due to "copyright reasons". But you won't let any of that stop you, because you can't wait to hear this--and you certainly won't be disappointed. Highly recommended!

Four years later these qualities have to some extent reversed. Bullock brings stunning dramatic intensity to Salome, scaling and warming her voice to reveal the awakening sexuality of the teenage girl. Her escalating passionate volleys attacking John the Baptist’s siege against her love are almost overwhelming. She and Mackerras darken much of the final monologue into a fantastic psychotic nightmare, basses and tubas becoming subterranean caverns mirroring Salome’s disturbed state. Notice how sweet and small Salome sounds when she requests something on a silver platter after her dance. Bullock then digs down into her chest voice in her insistence that what she demands is nothing less than Jokanaan’s severed head. Such malice is worlds away from Luini’s fifteenth century painting, chosen for the booklet cover.

It is sad then to hear that, as in her disappointing Wesendonck lieder (Avie), Bullock has developed a pronounced vibrato under pressure, notably in the crucial final lines. The voice no longer opens out securely as weight is pressed on the vocal chords. This is also a dramatic flaw as vibrato implies a mature voice undermining the successful youthfulness of Bullock’s acting elsewhere. However Bullock always holds the centre of the notes and the vibrato is not off-putting, especially when compared with Catherine Malfitano’s unhappy Salome for Dohnanyi (Decca). You will just need to listen around it. Luckily Strauss employs orchestral crescendos sparingly so Bullock’s vocal flaw in no way rules out the glories of either her interpretation as a whole or the rest of the recording.

And what a recording! Why do people bother with hallucinogenic drugs with sounds like this? The Philharmonia and the Chandos engineers have gone supersonic here, retaining clarity and bite within a primarily deep, rich-layered palette, very different from the crystalline textures of the Vienna Philharmonic for Dohnanyi. There are so many revelations that Mackerras’s team etch on the mind: the battalion of trombones after Jokanaan curses Salome, the zig-zag strings over the escalating violence of the timps and brass as Salome’s unbalanced parents finally debate what to do with their "monster" daughter, the degenerate slip sideways as the orchestra discordantly crashes after Salome’s final line. Throughout, Mackerras combines poetry and sweeping energy, never pulling or pushing the score. Even Salome’s Dance, which Alma Mahler recognised as the weakest part of Strauss’s music, holds a sovereign symphonic line.

John Wegner’s Jokanaan deserves special mention. His resonant cavernous baritone is both youthful and arresting, well contrasted with Andrew Rees’ fine lyric tenor. Wegner, like all others, misses the blackness and sheer loudness of Hotter’s implacable Old Testament prophet. Whilst there is an element of kitsch in both Oscar Wilde’s original play and Strauss’s score, John Graham-Hall’s degenerate Herod only narrowly avoids panto overacting. Mind you he sounds positively restrained compared with Horst Hiestermann for Sinopoli. Sally’s Burgess’s Herodias is dark, smoky and has real edge. She, more than Graham-Hall, has the cold command to evoke real horror.

English cannot replace the grip of the German text and no collector should be without outstanding sets by Sinopoli (DG) and Karajan (EMI). Yet it is revelatory for non-German speakers to hear lines take on new life immediately within the context of the music. Salome’s expectation as she hovers before the cistern and Herod’s distracted search for his wine and ring whilst waiting for Jokanaan’s execution really stand out. Overall the cast enunciate clearly but, to be honest, I sometimes needed to keep the libretto on hand as singers shift from the lyric to the big dramatic voice and words are elongated. Also Chandos bring voices into sensible focus whilst avoiding the mistake of their earlier Salome where the orchestra is too distant. Here the few occasions where tuttis almost overshadow the text are a fair trade-off for orchestral impact.

There is a real emotional and sonic surge to Mackerras’s Salome that tears the listener’s centre of gravity both up and down, occasionally at the same time. If you want a spectacular recording that leaves you battered and shaken then this is a Salome you must hear. It is a testament to the Metropolitan Opera live in 1952 with Fritz Reiner, Hans Hotter and the incomparable Ljuba Welitsch that their Salome, despite much less impressive sound, has even greater emotional kick.

Choros No. 2 is another duet, this time for flute and clarinet; No. 3 is a brief chorus for male voices, winds, and percussion; No. 10 is a vibrant, primal piece for orchestra and mixed choir, while No. 12 is one of the composer's grandest and most successful large works for orchestra (it lasts more than half an hour). As already suggested, the performances are all splendid, the sonics terrific. I've already listened to this disc a dozen times, and look forward to the next dozen. Don't miss it.