This year, as last, the Holland Festival was particularly strong on the operatic side. One could pick and choose between offerings from La Scala, Milan, and the Netherlands Opera; Rossini's La Cenerentola from the Italians, Otello, Die Zauberflöte and Janáček's last and posthumous opera Aus Einem Totenhaus from the Dutch. To take the Netherlands contributions first, and, in some unhappy respects, least, one must record the fact that Holland's Die Zauberjlöte was not at all up to festival standards, by no means as accomplished as 1953's Figaro, or Freischütz even. Singing was scratchy (neither Vroons/Tamino nor Adèle Leigh/Pamina was very adequate), the production (Georg Hartmann's) did not hang together, and, at the performance I witnessed, the ugly scenery (Emil Preetorius's) was suspended all crooked and awry. Perhaps it was that I chanced on a particularly unfortunate occasion (Gebouw voor K. en W., The Hague, 6th July) when the malice of inanimate objects—always a force to be reckoned with—would have despoiled any producer's plans, however well-laid. Nevertheless, the odd gremlin or two would not altogether explain the waste of inferior singing which depressed our ears, or justify an eccentric experiment of the conductor, Professor Josef Krips, who had the Three Boys impersonated by three boys. Even more astounding than the sight of these night-gowned infants—they each looked like a Christopher Robin about to fall down stairs—was the excruciating and unprecedentedly unmusical sounds they produced. It was the most complete massacre of Mozart's music I have yet come across.

Aix—Mozart—Rosbaud … the three names have become synonymous. It is in fact a curious manifestation of the French music festival for Rosbaud is most un-French in his outlook. His style is severely correct and immensely authoritative, yet he drains from a score all colour and nuance so that Mozart seems worked in lead rather than precious metals. It seems strange that the smart Parisian audience at Aix should have taken this conductor to their elegant bosoms whilst in Berlin, Monique Haas, essentially Gallic, and the sensuous Celibidache have become the most feted of visiting foreigners. The cult of Mozart at Aix is equally inexplicable except that the objectionable habit of French audiences to expect, and orchestras to play the last played movement as an encore, does not work at all badly in the case of Mozart, the master of the finale. But when it comes to opera, which is the core of the Aix festival, what is to be done? It is not possible to go on providing even more marvellous performances of the half dozen operas, and routine performances are best left to the opera-houses. Last year there was an adequate Così and a Figaro made memorable by the wonderfully inventive decor of Clavé. This year we had an appalling Seraglio and (sigh of relief) a tremendous Don Giovanni. This was an intelligent production by Jean Meyer magnificently acted and sung by a mainly Italian cast and beautifully designed by Cassandre.

An experienced writer on musical matters recently exclaimed: “I find it very difficult to write about Finzi's music—it's all so damned simple!” One can easily see what he meant. Who, for instance, in this year of grace, would dare to risk such a line as this in a major work:

This is certainly simple enough. Yet how else would one express in music Wordsworth's recollections of early childhood, the birds singing and the young lambs bounding? In the Angst of the twelve-tone system? In the “uncompromising” tight-lipped utterances of the mittel-European contemporary? It is only when we come to perform this music and hear it that we find we can do so without embarrassment.

In recent years Gerald Finzi has produced lengthy works such as the setting of Wordsworth's “Intimations of Immortality” and the clarinet concerto which, together with the earlier violin concerto, show a definite grasp of composition in the more extended forms. Although neither these works nor the various pieces for chamber groups can be disregarded in a final estimate of the composer, it can be fairly confidently upheld that it is within the narrower confines of the solo song that Finzi has given us his best work up to the present time. This is not altogether surprising since his gifts are above all lyrical. To write a good song is no mean accomplishment; to find in song-writing, as Finzi has done, a definite personal expression and a consistent development of style is something which only a few composers either achieve or attempt.

When we honestly ask ourselves in what particular connections we most readily tend to use concepts of nationality, race, and so forth, on what occasions we feel inclined to talk or write of something as being typically German, English, Irish, American, or Jewish, we soon discover that in the frightening majority of instances, some strong (if not altogether conscious) motive in our mind prompts us to employ these alleged characterisations as terms of either favourable evaluation or devaluation, the latter tendency being perhaps the more frequent. The reasons for these irrational attitudes, which even the most sophisticated amongst us are likely to adopt, are twofold and, genetically speaking, primitive.

Alexandre Glazounov is a personality known, perhaps, to those who at the present time frequent the concert-halls, but to most people little more than a name. In the opinion of many music-critics he is an “academic antiquated romantic,” and this verdict has not been without influence on conductors and soloists, who do not like to run the risk of being considered old-fashioned. The restlessness and superficiality of modern times is, without doubt, connected with this tendency, which has stifled much creative talent before its significance could sufficiently penetrate the world of music: the unfortunate result is that many well-known musicians of the present day have not even the slightest acquaintance with the best works of Glazounov.