November mists, unpeopled places along a northern coastline, ineffable melancholy, veiled nostalgia – all come spontaneously to mind as The North Shore (1993-4) gently reveals herself. Bryars’s score sets a solo viola among strings and percussion, modulates slowly and leaves an indelible impression. Les fiancailles (1983, revised 1996) suggests Liszt’s Lugubre gondola sailing somewhere into the next century, with sullen piano writing, a modest showing of strings and percussion, and – from, say, 10'39'' – an imaginative use of violin harmonics. The South Downs (1995), on the other hand, is cast as a duet for cello and piano and although haunted by the aching, fin de siecle harmonic strategy that colours its disc companions, loses out for a lack of colour.
Bryars’s informative booklet-note chronicles the events, artefacts and specific musical personalities that helped bring these pieces to life, and the performances (all of which involve the composer) could hardly be bettered. This is essentially music for reflection, contemplation and moments spent alone, soft-textured, slow and ethereal (plenty of sky-bound arpeggios) – and, as such, it works wonderfully well.
Bryars conceived A Man in a Room, Gambling (1992) as a sort of “enigmatic curiosity” for radio, rather like the Shipping Forecast, “which is broadcast at four precise times during the day by the BBC” (as he reminds us). There are five selections programmed, each lasting around five minutes and featuring Juan Munoz’s spoken commentary on “the manipulation of playing cards” as set against a modest instrumental backdrop. The sum effect of hearing Munoz relate his ‘tricks of the trade’ to a sighing musical soundtrack suggests a sort of Parsifal for gamblers, the implication being, in terms of the gambler, “why am I doing this? After all, I know where it will get me!”. Each piece varies the musical formula (the fourth includes distant gossip and what sounds like flamenco dancing), but although Munoz’s voice is innocuous enough – even rather charming at times – I cannot imagine wanting to hear it more than twice, maybe three times. By the end of the fifth piece, I was throwing up my hands, shouting “Enough! Please! Let me hear just the music!”. Perhaps Bryars might consider reusing his material in a purely instrumental context; certainly, there is no obvious correlation between words and music, and the selections – five are played out of a total of ten – are presented in what seems like a random order (4, 8, 3, 9 and 10).
A fascinating listen, I would say, although somewhat limited in its long-term appeal – but do try and hear The North Shore.'