Eric Craven is a composer I’ve respected ever since we meet at a WMA summer school where his remarkable music met with almost universal incomprehension.
I have only problem with this posting: WHAT exactly were you recording, Eric?
Once again we converge upon Wyastone for the recording of Piano Sonata No. 8. It is a Saturday afternoon on a quiet M50 towards Monmouth. It is late autumn. The sky is a continuous thick low lying grey cloud which merges with the mist which blankets the surrounding countryside. The fields are supersaturated. Everywhere there are fallen leaves coalescing to make a heavy and lumpen carpet. The last vestiges of the autumn colours show. The world is grey.
In the cold and deep darkness of a rural night, Alex arrives, off loads and sets up his recording equipment ready for the following day. Mary arrives much later from London via Abergavenny and promptly soaks up a huge cup of warming tea. The troops are mustered, plans are laid.
The following morning we make an early, determined start. There is much to be done. The warmth and brightness of the auditorium…
View original post 371 more words