Contemporary æsthetic theory is inevitably becoming involved in half-truths. There is a constant bifurcation of concepts, with one aspect often emerging as a unique value while the other is eliminated. Thus, many insist that music achieves its loftiest aims by suppressing form and concentrating on feeling. Within the category of feeling it is further insisted that only the loftiest feelings are admissible into the loftiest music. Or there are those who deny feeling; and those, like Satie and Weill who, legitimately fed up with the nineteenth-century ‘sérieux a tout prix,’ have gone to the other extreme of music with only the most ignoble content.

To say that the map of Europe has changed during the last five years is to remark on the obvious. To understand the implications of the change as they concern music is a little more difficult. It is clear that most of the international centres for presenting music under favourable conditions have gone, some for good reasons, others for unhappy causes. Berlin, Vienna, Prague, Budapest and Salzburg can hardly function again on pre-war lines until many years are past. Paris, Brussels and London are left with the responsibility of maintaining music, international music, at its highest level.

The three little masterpieces collectively designated Op. 67, give the lie to those who incline carelessly to belittle the whole of Sibelius's small-scale compositions. They may, too, provide a surprise for people who instinctively think of Kuhlau whenever the word sonatina is mentioned.

To see an English comedy film with ideas, wit, a droll sense of character, and no concessions to an imaginary lowest common denominator of popular taste is not a weekly experience. When such a film combines the virtues of intelligent and technically skilful direction with an adroit use of music, it is a joy to be trumpeted with gusto. Such a film is ‘Don't Take it to Heart,’ written and directed by Geoffrey Dell and with a musical score by Mischa Spoliansky.

A recent visit to the United States leaves no doubt in my mind that, there as here, the war has stimulated the urge to hear good music to a remarkable degree. The increase is less noticeable than in England, but when it is remembered that the restrictions on entertainment, travel, food, in fact all the commonplaces of peace-time existence, are somewhat less severe than they are here, the boom in music is still a matter for comment.

It was in 1936 that a band of two dozen selected Wellington singers accepted the invitation of Mr. Stanley Oliver to form a choir for the study of a repertory that should consist largely, though not exclusively, of modern music. Within a few months the Schola Cantorum, as it was named, gave a radio concert under Dr. Malcolm Sargent, who was in New Zealand at the time. The progress made under Mr. Oliver in this short period revealed that he had chosen a team with the will to study and the musicianship to tackle the type of work he had in mind. Parry's ‘Blest Pair of Sirens,’ together with six unaccompanied madrigals, were sung.