Martyn Mystere

Returning to his form of several releases ago, John Martyn found good things to convey to the listener here. The classic love song "Never Let Me Go" is worth the price of admission here alone, but the rest of the cuts have something to recommend them also. Too bad Well Kept Secret turned out to be only a lost, rough-cut gem.

The Apprentice was mostly completed a full two years before it was released. Martyn's record label, Island, rejected the tapes of the songs in 1988, even though artistically they were not too far removed from his previous release, Piece by Piece. In fact, this album turned out to be the more cohesive of the two. Eventually released by Permanent Records, it's by and large a well-crafted collection of songs. Its only weaknesses are the sometimes too-strong dependence on synthesizers and the song "Deny This Love," which is Martyn doing bad dance music (and featuring a truly horrible a cappella introduction). Otherwise, it's an enjoyable album.

Though his reputation is based on folk music, in the 1990s John Martyn began saying he was "funky, not folky," and this album proves it. A heady brew of trip-hop, late-night jazz, and heavy rhythms, it was a step away from the primarily smooth jazz of his 1980s work and a quantum leap away from his 1960s and 1970s acoustic music. It's a successful venture, as Martyn's slurry impressionistic vocals were made for this kind of music…

After releasing the much-delayed The Apprentice, Martyn was once again on a roll, and, while not quite as strong as The Apprentice, Cooltide was a solid outing. His jazziest release yet, it's marred slightly by a gravelly hoarseness in his voice, which makes him sound like he's just recovered from laryngitis. "Jack the Lad" was the single released, and, along with "Annie Says" and the aching "Call Me," they show him entering the 1990s in fine form. The title song had a long gestation, originally recorded for 1979's Grace and Danger under the title "Running up the Harbour." While a bit long, it's a great hypnotic, groove-oriented track that's smooth and cool, with Martyn venturing a little further afield than he had in quite a while.

Ralph Vaughan Williams' A London Symphony, otherwise known as the Symphony No. 2 in G major, was composed between 1911 and 1913, and premiered in 1914. After the score was lost in the mail, reconstructed from the short score and orchestral parts, and revised twice, the symphony was published at last in 1920, though it was ultimately replaced by the definitive version in 1936, with cuts to the about 20 minutes of the original material. This recording by Martyn Brabbins and the BBC Symphony Orchestra presents the 1920 version, along with three short works, Sound sleep for female voices and small orchestra, Orpheus with his lute for voice and orchestra, and the Variations for brass band. The filler pieces are delightful rarities that Vaughan Williams specialists will find of some interest, though most listeners will prize this recording for the energetic and colorful performance of the symphony, which is one of the composer's most vivid and satisfying works.

Hyperion’s virtually single-handed rehabilitation of the music of York Bowen (known in his time as ‘The English Rachmaninov’), continues apace with this recording of the third and fourth piano concertos. Piano Concerto No 3 is a vigorous one-movement work with three well-defined sections of varying tempos in Fantasia style. Bowen’s sparkling performances of it drew plaudits from contemporary critics, who hailed it as his best composition thus far.

A wonderful collection of songs that deserves to be heard, No Little Boy serves as a sort of greatest-hits package for John Martyn, and also makes an excellent introduction to the music of this unique performer. This album is made up of newly re-recorded versions of some of Martyn's finest material from throughout his career. With assistance from longtime fan and friend Phil Collins, and contributions from an all-star cast including vocalist Levon Helm of the Band, Pink Floyd guitarist David Gilmour, saxman Andy Sheppard, and others, Martyn delivers definitive takes on his catalog of folk- and jazz-flavored material, recorded with pristine clarity and crispness. His trademark vocal slur is in evidence here, but the enunciation is more decipherable than on earlier recordings. This is beautiful, haunting, densely atmospheric, at times funky music.

MacMillan’s viola concerto was written for Lawrence Power, who brings a unique authority to this, its first recording. The fourth symphony—a major addition to the repertoire—is a generous and appropriate coupling, both works incorporating and alchemically transforming musical elements from the distant past.