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I can’t remember when I first heard this piece, but it was almost certainly on BBC Radio Three’s Breakfast programme and, as is often the way, the piece caught my attention and I decided to find out more about it.

My score has the date “September 2013” inscribed on the inside cover, which means I purchased the sheet music just a month after I took delivery of my 1913 Bechstein model A grand piano. A few months prior to this, I visited the Cobbe Collection, a fascinating collection of historic keyboard instruments, and had the opportunity to play a square piano which had belonged to Edward Elgar. 

(Image: The Cobbe Collection)

Elgar composed Dream Children in 1902, so my piano is almost contemporary with the piece. Originally written for small orchestra, the work offers a glimpse into the composer’s more introspective and poetic side. The transcription for solo piano highlights the music’s delicate lyricism and nostalgic in a more intimate setting. The work’s reflective mood and gentle expressiveness make it one of Elgar’s most personal and touching miniatures.

The title Dream Children comes from an essay by Charles Lamb, “Dream Children: A Reverie,” published in 1822. In that essay, Lamb imagines telling stories to his children – who, by the end, are revealed to be only figments of his imagination, the children he might have had with his lost love, Alice. Elgar was deeply moved by Lamb’s bittersweet meditation on memory, loss, and the power of dreams, and he translated those emotions into music with remarkable sensitivity.

The piece consists of two short movements. The first, marked Andante, unfolds like a tender lullaby. Scored in 12/8, it has the feeling of a gentle barcarolle with a simple and songlike melody evoking the innocence of childhood and the wistful beauty of remembered joy. The music rarely leaves the pp and ppp dynamic range, except for bar 8 where there is a moment of drama marked molto lento, leading to a sustained g minor chord. Elgar emphasises the tender wistfulness of the piece through the use of rubato, ritardandos and pauses. At the very end, a single modulation through the introduction of a B natural in the bass brings the piece to an close on a hopeful, literally uplifting note.

The second movement, Allegretto piacevole, provides an animated contrast while maintaining the same emotional core. Its mood and rhythm is more animated, with a gently lilting character. A pianist friend of mine remarked that the semiquaver figures in this movement suggest the composer cycling around the countryside of Malvern where he lived. Yet even in its lighter moments, there is an underlying poignancy. The coda returns to the theme of the first movement, back in g minor now, but once again the music ends in G major, fading into a ppp whisper.

While not especially technically challenging for the pianist (I would say this piece is around Grade 6 to 7 standard), the piece requires sensitivity of touch and competent legato pedalling in the first movement to sustain the cantabile melody. And while the first movement remains in a mostly hushed dynamic range, there is plenty of scope for expressivity.

I recently played this piece for a friend who owns a beautiful Steinway B. Having not touched the music for nearly 10 years, I was reminded of just how charming this pair of miniatures is. The score is published by Faber Music.

Here’s another atmospheric solo piano piece by Elgar:

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Guest post by Samantha Ege

As a student, I loved thumbing through the pages of a piano collection, whether in a music store, charity shop, or library. Each score was its own rabbit hole. The more obscure, the better. “What else is out there?” I would wonder.

Losing track of time in a music shop feels rather nostalgic now, especially as most scores can be found online. But as a musicologist who spends time with handwritten manuscripts, I still cherish that gorgeously tactile experience. In those moments, I am transported to the feeling of endless curiosity that shaped my early path.

CDs, also an increasingly nostalgic medium, were part of my journey too.

I remember, just before I went to study music at the University of Bristol in 2008, my piano teacher gave me a CD called Kaleidoscope (2001), by the Canadian pianist Marc-André Hamelin. I saw a few familiar names on the track list: Rachmaninoff, Poulenc, and Kapustin. But many others were a revelation. My favourite was Arthur Lourié’s “Gigue.” I was swept up in its thunderous rhythms and harmonic whirlwinds. In fact, I ordered the score from a local music shop in Bristol not long after I arrived.

During my second year, I went to McGill University in Montreal (coincidentally the city where Hamelin was born). In my professor’s Early Twentieth-Century Music class, I encountered a second Kaleidoscope CD. The performer on this 1995 recording was yet another Canadian pianist with a penchant for the obscure: Helen Walker-Hill.

Walker-Hill was also a musicologist. She bridged her pianistic prowess with an interest in classical music’s hidden histories. Her former husband was the Pulitzer Prize-winning composer George Walker. Their son, violinist Gregory T. S. Walker, joined her on parts of Kaleidoscope. The album’s subtitle was “Music by African-American Women” and Florence Price’s Fantasie Nègre in E minor for solo piano (composed in 1929) was the final track.

Both Hamelin’s and Walker-Hill’s Kaleidoscope shaped the patterns of my own work as a musicologist and pianist. As a student, it was not enough for me to hear the music of Lourié without tracking down the score. Similarly, as soon as I heard the Chopin-esque cascades and Negro spiritual influence of Price’s Fantasie, I had to know more.

Today, Price’s story as the most celebrated African American female symphonist of the 1930s and 40s is part of the classical mainstream. This knowledge stems from many efforts over many years to bring her legacy to the fore, including those of Walker-Hill (who died in 2013), and those of the late musicologist and organist Rae Linda Brown (who passed away in 2017). The culmination of Brown’s work – a biography titled The Heart of a Woman: The Life and Music of Florence B. Price – was published three years after her death.

A few months before Brown’s passing, I emailed her to share that I was writing an MA thesis on Price at the University of York (which became my PhD dissertation). Brown encouraged me to visit Price’s archives at the University of Arkansas. In fact, Brown’s warm response arrived when I was already there.

Throughout my archival work, two things captivated me: first, Price had composed a total of four Fantasies Nègres for solo piano, meaning there was more music out there. Second, she was far from an anomaly as a classical composer of African descent.

Regarding the first, the thought of presenting Price’s Fantasies in their entirety took me back to my love of diving into a body of works, like Brahms’ late piano opuses, Albeniz’s Iberia, and Debussy’s Estampes (all favourites of mine as a student). There was something about the heft of a complete collection, which defines so many of our great composers, that I wanted to create with Price. After all, Price viewed her Four Fantasies as a collection. The spiritual beauty of Fantasie Nègre No. 1 in E minor, the Brahmsian introspection of Fantasie Nègre No. 2 in G minor, the velvet colourings of Fantasie Nègre No. 3 in F minor, and the impassioned virtuosity of Fantasie Nègre No. 4 in B minor were all connected.

When I returned to Price’s archives in 2019 to focus on the Fantasies, it became clear that No. 3 wouldinvolve some detective work. The first two pages were all I could find. I therefore had to look for loose sheets of manuscript with similar musical characteristics to complete the score.

Additionally, I noticed that the original version of Fantasie Nègre No. 4 was twice as long and a million times more complex than the five-minute version G. Schirmer had recently published. Price likely shortened and simplified it because short and simple works by women were more marketable in the 1930s. But in the 21st century, it was time to hear what she was truly capable of.

As for the second realisation, I’d always found the notion of a compositional school intriguing, from the First and Second Viennese Schools to The Five and Les Six. Well, Price belonged to an era of cultural rebirth known as the Black (or Negro) Renaissance. What’s more, women were far from minor footnotes. Alongside composers Margaret Bonds, Nora Holt, Betty Jackson King, the Canadian Robert Nathaniel Dett, and England’s Samuel Coleridge-Taylor (who mentored many Black Renaissance composers), Price believed in classical music’s power to generate social harmony.

My new sheet music publications – Fantasie Nègre: Four Fantasies by Florence B. Price and Piano Music of the Black Renaissance – celebrate this history. They also carry the imprint of my own prismatic influences, from Hamelin’s adventurous programming to Walker-Hill’s and Brown’s scholarly spotlight on classical music’s “hidden figures.”

I would have loved to stumble across these volumes as a student. But as I look ahead, regardless of whether pianists engage with the physical scores or digital downloads, I am excited for the kaleidoscopic journeys these editions will inspire as curious fingers descend upon the keys.

Samantha Ege is a musicologist, pianist, and author.

www.samanthaege.com

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It’s so disappointing when you see a bunch of instrumentalists walk on stage and you already know how a piece is going to sound…

Jack Sheen, composer & conductor (interview in VAN magazine)

We live in a visual world, never more so now with platforms like Instagram and TikTok feeding us images in an endless churn. Yet perhaps we forget that we don’t just hear a concert; we also see it. Today, how musicians present themselves is more important than ever. When performers walk onto a stage, the moment is a critical transition that sets the energy for the entire performance.

The visual dimension of live musical performance is incredibly significant to the audience’s experience. Before a single note is played, audiences begin forming expectations. From the moment the musicians come onto stage, they are already communicating with the audience. Posture, facial expression, energy, and clothing all speak volumes. So, if performers appear disengaged, rigid, or overly uniform, the audience anticipates a performance that may be equally lifeless or predictable. In contrast, expressive, intentional and confident body language can signal vitality, emotional depth, and interpretive individuality. In both instances, the audience’s expectations are set up before the music begins.

The disappointment referenced in the quote above stems from this sense of predictability: if performers look uninspired, listeners expect uninspired sound. Conversely, confident posture, purposeful movement, and engaged facial expression convey commitment and readiness. The violinist who breathes with a phrase or the pianist whose gestures reflect the arc of the melody communicates intention. These physical cues help bring the music to life and demonstrate that the performer is not merely executing notes but also embodying them, literally.

When I was a piano teacher, particularly when preparing students for their exams or other performance events, no matter their age or ability level, I would help them understand the importance of “stagecraft” and “presence”. These were skills which I taught myself when I was preparing for professional performance diplomas in my late 40s, having not had formal conservatoire training, and I learnt a lot by observing performers in concerts. A performer who enters the stage smiling, or at least looking pleased to be there, greets the audience with a bow or a few words to introduce the programme, immediately sets the expectation that the performance will be engaging and enjoyable.

One of the best examples of this, in my mind, is the pianist Angela Hewitt. With her broad smile and perfectly applied lipstick, not to mention a beautiful concert dress, she comes onto the stage looking as if she can’t wait to share the music with the audience. Not only does her body language convey pleasure, but it also instils confidence in the audience.

When helping my piano students understand the importance of body language and stage presence, I would ask them to “come on stage” from the hallway of my home, into the main room where my piano lived. The younger children enjoyed the “game” of this exercise and the “acting” or role-playing (of which more later) it entailed. The older ones would take it more seriously; all, I think, understood the usefulness of this exercise.

“Walk confidently and smile at the examiner when you enter the exam room,” I would say to my students. Not only is this a friendly gesture, but it also helps settle nerves. And this is another significant aspect of body language and stage presence: as performers, especially those of us who struggle with nerves or performance anxiety, our body language and demeanour can help us feel more confident, which, in turn, can influence our performance.

Performance is, in part, an act. Some acting and “playing the part” is integral to good stagecraft, but authenticity matters more than spectacle. Overly dramatic gestures can seem insincere, while stillness can suggest detachment. The goal is balance: visible expression should match the musical character. For example, a solemn adagio may require stillness and inward focus, but that stillness should feel intentional, not disengaged.

Ultimately, the opening quote underscores that musical performance is as much about presence as precision. Before a note sounds, performers tell a story through their bearing. When their body language promises energy and communication, the audience anticipates a memorable experience. Body language is a vital component of meaningful musical performance.

Evgeny Kissin

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Guest post by Orlando Murrin

As a young man, I had the good fortune to be taken under the musical wing of an ex-Radio 3 music producer, who decided my cultural education was lacking and that she would try and remedy this. Her name was Diana Gordon, and she was a well-known figure on the London musical scene; after retiring from the BBC, she was persuaded by Jim Ede to curate the recitals and concerts at his newly formed Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge.

That’s how I met her in 1976 – as a freshman, in my first week at university – when I innocently volunteered to turn the pages at chamber music recitals; I’ve always loved turning pages – being part of the action without the pressure of performing. Bright-eyed and intensely interested in everyone and everything she encountered, Diana instantly invited me round to tea, and an unusual friendship blossomed.

To accompany the Earl Grey, Diana produced a delectable orange yogurt cake and I complimented her. ‘Musicians love their food,’ she explained. ‘There must be some connection and one day they’ll discover it.’ This was the first of countless home-cooked feasts I enjoyed in her company, and the first of many life lessons I learnt from her. When she died, I inherited her precious handwritten recipe collection, of perfect, simple, unpretentious dishes, including that yogurt cake, for which I’m proud to share the recipe below.

She confided in me that for most of her life she had been excruciatingly shy, but in her fifties experienced a sort of epiphany and decided she didn’t want to spend the rest of her life hiding in corners. At her favourite haunts – Wigmore Hall and the Purcell Room – she seemed to know half the audience, and if someone looked interesting, she would find a reason to march up, introduce herself and as often as not, invite them round to tea.

She wasn’t, of course, the first person to observe that musicians have gourmet tendencies. In Larousse Gastronomique you’ll find Tournedos Rossini, Turkey Tetrazzini (named after the celebrated Italian soprano), Melba Toast and Peach Melba, named in honour of Dame Nellie. Pasta alla Norma (with aubergine) is named after the opera. A compulsory souvenir of a visit to Salzburg are the chocolate-pistachio balls wrapped prettily in foil and known as Mozartkugeln.

*

During her career at Radio 3, Diana produced all styles and periods of classical music. It may be apocryphal, but the story goes she was commissioned to record all Scarlatti’s 550 keyboard sonatas, played by the great artists of the day, including Wanda Landowska, Kenneth Gilbert and George Malcolm. The project had to be abandoned when she discovered that the last two hundred she ended up with were all in G minor – a programme planner’s nightmare.

She formed lasting friendships with many of the leading musicians of the day and it was thanks to her that Kettle’s Yard became known for its world-class chamber music programme. I particularly remember Vlado Perlemuter’s yearly appearance, when the great man would enthral the eager young audience with his Ravel, Fauré and Chopin. (Sadly for me, he didn’t need any pages turning.)

Diana apologised to me that since her retirement she’d ‘reverted to type’ and only really enjoyed listening to the ‘greats’ – principally Bach, Mozart, Beethoven and Schubert. To my enormous good fortune, she made it her mission to improve my sketchy musical knowledge. Over many years we played our way through Schubert’s piano duet repertoire (my playing wasn’t a patch on hers but I was a good sight reader) and she told me how touched she was to have been able to pass on to me her love of his music: ‘Beethoven one deeply admires, but Schubert one loves.’

At Radio 3 she necessarily produced a lot of modern and contemporary music but never warmed to it. One composer she couldn’t abide was John Ireland, which was tricky because she was great friends with the pianist Alan Rowlands, who recorded his collected piano music. (I thought Alan knew of her dislike, and put my foot in it by mentioning it.)

On the other hand she much admired the work of South African composer Arnold van Wyk; in fact I noticed Diana always turned ‘misty’ when his name was mentioned and couldn’t help wondering if there had been an attachment. Another champion of van Wyk was their mutual friend, the composer Howard Ferguson. In 1995 he set aside composition to write ‘Entertaining Solo – A Cookbook for the Single Host’. Diana presented me with a copy signed by the author, but to my eternal sorrow this was lost in a house move.

*

Our friendship lasted for more than 25 years. Whenever possible, we continued to meet up whenever possible to play duets and enjoy cosy suppers. She moved from Victoria (as the crow flies, she was Queen Elizabeth’s nearest neighbour) to a basement flat in Fulham, where the disagreeable tenant living above would stamp on the floor if she didn’t like the music being played. Diana took this in her stride, and resolved to change her Blüthner for a harpsichord.

It turned out not to be necessary because in 2002 Diana found a lump on her head and was diagnosed with brain cancer. ‘It’s the oddest thing,’ she told me. ‘I don’t feel at all depressed about it.’ After she died, her goddaughter gave me some of her pictures, sheet music and her piano chair, but it’s the life lessons I carry about with me, including some that still make me chuckle.

For instance…

  • The better to concentrate, she invariably listened to music with her eyes closed (audience members frequently assumed she’d fallen asleep). Her car radio was never switched on, because how could you listen and drive at the same time?
  • She was horrified by musicians’ lack of dress sense, especially singers
  • She adored young people and young things – babies, kittens, seedlings, chicks.
  • She swore by the Alexander Technique, and said it had added an inch-and-a-half to her height.
  • Music frequently moved her to tears; she decided this was because deep-down she realised the time was approaching when she would no longer be alive to hear it.

DIANA’S ORANGE YOGURT CAKE

The novel measuring method in this recipe is very Diana.

Prep – 10 minutes

Cook – about an hour

Slices into 10

Keeps for 3 or 4 days and freezes well

FOR THE CAKE:

150ml pot plain low-fat yogurt – use the pot as a measure for other ingredients

2 pots self-raising flour

½ teaspoon baking powder

1 ½ pots of caster sugar

½ pot of oil, such as sunflower oil

2 eggs

Grated zest of an orange

Pinch of salt

FOR THE GLAZE:

Juice of half an orange

2 tablespoons sugar

1 Line a medium loaf tin (about 1 litre capacity) with baking paper.

2 Put all the cake ingredients into a bowl and mix well. Transfer to the tin and bake at 170C/fan 150C for about 50-60 minutes until well browned and a toothpick comes out clean. (If cake starts to brown too soon, shield with a foil.)

3 While it’s baking, heat the juice and sugar till dissolved. When the cake comes out of the oven, remove from tin and brush the top with the glaze till it’s all absorbed. Leave to cool and slice.

DIANA GORDON AT KETTLE’S YARD

I asked Kettle’s Yard in Cambridge if it would be possible to have details of the recitals and concerts Diana organised between 1974 and 84, and the Music Chair spent many hours going through the archives to provide me with a full list. It reads like a Who’s Who of the British chamber music scene of the period.

Among the pianists were Vlado Perlemuter (seven recitals), Radu Lupu, Andras Schiff, Imogen Cooper, Howard Shelley, Melvyn Tan, Richard Goode, Malcolm Binns, John McCabe, plus harpsichord and organ recitals by George Malcolm, Trevor Pinnock, William Christie, Virginia Pleasants, Blandine Verlet and Gillian Weir.

String quartets featured prominently – among those who came to Kettle’s Yard at her bidding were the Lindsay, Aeolian, Chilingirian, Gabrieli, Alberni, Orlando, Endellion and Brodsky Quartets. String players were also favoured – including Raphael Wallfisch. Cecil Aronowitz, Amaryllis Fleming, Moray Welsh, Gyorgy Pauk, Yfrah Neaman and Steven Isserlis. Singers included

Judith Nelson, Jane Manning (with Richard Rodney Bennett), Emma Kirkby and – most years – duo Ian and Jennifer Partridge.

The last concert organised by Diana – on 7 June 1984 – was given by George Malcolm and Andras Schiff.

Orlando Murrin is a food writer, now crime writer, and forever amateur pianist.

orlandomurrin.com