A cinematic soundscape

As an experiment, I encourage you to listen to one of Liszt’s symphonic poems, perhaps Tasso, From the Cradle to the Grave or Héroïde funèbre, while doing something completely mundane. Whether reading, working, or even engaging in conversation, you’ll find that his all-encompassing soundscapes transform the moment. Suddenly, everything feels infused with grandeur, depth, and emotional complexity. The world around you takes on a heightened significance, as if some unseen hand has orchestrated a profound narrative beneath the everyday.

Listening to The Battle of the Huns, for instance, can make even the most ordinary task feel like an epic endeavour. And when paired with a book, Liszt’s music has the peculiar effect of making any passage seem urgent and meaningful, as though the words carry some newfound insight into life’s mysteries. Of course, it’s all an illusion; Liszt’s sweeping, hyper-romantic vision is almost absurd in its excess. But that’s precisely what makes it exhilarating.

I often wonder what it would have been like to know Liszt. I picture him and Nietzsche in the same category: restless wanderers across Europe, both capable of seeing unfathomable depth in the ordinary and expressing it with a dizzying intensity that sweeps the listener or reader along in its wake. Liszt’s music moves like an ever-shifting landscape, as if we are hurtling past valleys, forests, villages and cities, catching every detail in vivid color before being carried forward to the next. When it finally releases us, we are left breathless; wiser, perhaps or at least more aware of the sheer capacity of an artist to reframe the world we thought we knew.

In addition to its brilliance and bravado, I find Liszt’s symphonic writing full of wit and playfulness. There are moments when I suspect he composed with his tongue firmly in his cheek, relishing the sheer audacity of it all.

Speaking of great music, one of my recent finds in Oxfam was a performance of Peer Gynt conducted by Sir Alexander Gibson—one of my favourite conductors and, sadly, a figure who seems to be slipping into obscurity. Where is the effort to curate his legacy? Perhaps he recorded for labels that are either unwilling or unable to issue a comprehensive retrospective?

I first discovered Gibson through his recordings of Beethoven’s piano concertos for Classics for Pleasure, featuring John Lill at the piano. Lill’s performance was typically emotional yet robust, but it was Gibson’s orchestral direction that truly captivated me. He had a remarkable ability to extract every last sentiment from a score without ever tipping into sentimentality. There are moments in those recordings that surpass any other interpretation I’ve encountered.

His Peer Gynt is another example of his talent. The score breathes, unfolding naturally with a sense of spaciousness, yet never feeling sluggish or overly deliberate. Unlike some conductors who treat it as an opera in disguise, Gibson approaches it as true theatre music—intended to enhance and accompany rather than overshadow. Some might find his pacing on the slower side, but to me, it feels just right. His interpretation makes the score ‘make sense’ in a way that few others do, even if they offer more fireworks. For comparison, I also picked up highlights from Coppélia conducted by Ernest Ansermet, which, while enjoyable, failed to sustain my attention in the same way.

Gibson’s recordings of the Sibelius symphonies for Chandos in the 1980s stand as one of the finest examples of his artistry. The cycle is enthralling and devastating without ever slipping into melodrama. Gibson's hand remains firmly on the tiller, pushing the music to its emotional and structural limits without falling into cliché or exaggeration.

Comparing Gibson’s Sibelius with Adrian Leaper’s complete cycle for Naxos (and his partial set for Arte Nova) is a study in contrasts. Leaper brings a remarkable restraint that allows what is unsaid to carry weight, much like the stifled emotions of the characters in The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. Gibson, by contrast, offers us Sibelius as if painted by Edvard Munch—brimming with dark melancholy and foreboding. Leaper’s restrained beauty versus Gibson’s raw emotiveness—two equally compelling but vastly different approaches.

Reflecting on the lack of recognition for Gibson, I find myself wondering why some of Britain’s most extraordinary conductors of the late 20th century have yet to receive the retrospective treatment they deserve. We’ve been treated to magnificent archival releases celebrating Sir Neville Marriner—though, in truth, not quite at the gold standard of Sony’s extensive tributes to Eugene Ormandy, Pierre Boulez, Leontyne Price, Fritz Reiner and Leonard Bernstein, to name but a few. But where are the box sets celebrating the achievements of Richard Hickox, Bryden Thomson, Vernon Handley, Sir Andrew Davis and Harry Christophers? And, of course, Gibson himself?

It’s gratifying to see Naxos release a retrospective for the American conductor Gerard Schwarz, yet so many other brilliant conductors from recent times remain overlooked. Perhaps Chandos, who recorded many of these artists extensively, could be persuaded to curate a collection or two? And while we’re at it, how about a full reissue of the excellent Chaconne series?

Music history has a way of elevating certain figures while allowing others to drift into the shadows. Sometimes, this is due to sheer luck; whether an artist recorded for a label with the resources to preserve and promote their work. Other times, it’s a question of timing and changing tastes. Whatever the case, I can’t help but feel that we are at risk of forgetting some truly remarkable interpreters of orchestral music. If we can resurrect lost composers through dedicated revival efforts, surely we can do the same for the conductors who brought their works to life.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to seek out these hidden treasures in record shops and second-hand stores. Because sometimes, the best discoveries aren’t found in lavishly curated box sets, but in the quiet thrill of stumbling upon a forgotten gem and realising its worth.